


Transmutations

by oooknuk



Series: Mutable Scars [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Aftermath of Rape and torture, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 15:39:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11405430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oooknuk/pseuds/oooknuk
Summary: Duncan comes to look for his damaged friends. But the recovery is by no means complete





	Transmutations

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to **Mutable Scars**. This is also a slight AU – the events in 'Indiscretions' take place without Methos being present.
> 
> WARNINGS: Non con. Angst. Violence. language and violence (in other words, the usual shit for me). AU.

It'd been a while, he reflected, as he drove through the familiar damp greenness of the Highlands. As always, coming home jumbled his emotions. The ache in his heart wasn't a new one, but it was overlaid by harsher griefs. He wasn't sure if coming in search of his friends wasn't going to make things worse.

Joe wasn't happy about him coming back to Scotland, that was for sure. But then he wasn't happy about much at all these days. Not about Richie. Not about his dead Watchers. And not really even about the defeat of Ahriman, because it was something he had to take on trust. There wasn't a body he could examine, and both of them had seen the dead return too many times to be satisfied with less than total proof. Okay, he accepted Duncan's word, so he said – but there was a lingering doubt. There was bound to be. 

It was one of the reasons his Watcher had tried to dissuade him going to Glenfinnan to see Cassandra, to try and see Methos. But it wasn't the only one. Joe and Amanda had given him a fairly graphic description of what they had seen after they'd retrieved Methos and Cassandra from Slovakia, although details were thin on what had actually happened while the two Immortals been kept prisoner. Both of them had been surprised by Methos' insistence on returning to Scotland with his former slave. Duncan had been more than surprised, remembering the bitter hatred Cassandra had expressed towards Methos the last time he'd seen her. The strange turn of events had worried Duncan. Joe seemed to be less concerned than he would have expected. That reassured him just a little. Only a little. 

But whatever had happened in Glenfinnan had happened months earlier and if Cassandra had wanted to kill Methos, he would already be dead. What Duncan did know was that Methos had not made contact with Joe in nearly twelve months. Duncan's letters to Cassandra had gone unanswered until a week ago. She had said very little, only 'Come, but be careful.' And what did _that_ mean? 

She was going to meet him by the loch and take him to where Methos lived. Not with her, that was obvious. But she'd told him nothing about how he was – or how she herself was doing. Joe had told him that she had been in bad shape – thin, nervy, desperately weary, although proud as always. And he'd said Methos was twice as bad. Why Joe and Amanda had let them leave without help, Duncan couldn't understand. 

He knew he had no business telling his friends what to do when he had just abandoned them for a year. Methos was alive. More than that, he would soon see, he hoped. 

It was drizzling gently as he pulled into the carpark of the visitor centre by the loch. So much had changed in his life, but the sea, the hills were the same. Had been for all his four hundred years. He found it reassuring, in a way. 

Half an hour later, he felt Immortal presence, and turning, saw Cassandra walking through the rain. He opened the passenger door and she got in. 

She looked much the same as she had the previous year, possibly a little thinner, but not noticeably. She was wearing sensible clothes, walking shoes, and her hair was pulled back into a severe, practical ponytail. It made her look almost plain, he thought. He took her hand and offered her a kiss on the cheek, but she flinched slightly even as she allowed it. "Are you okay?" he asked. 

"I'm all right. What about you, Duncan? I heard... about the boy. About the demon. I knew you would defeat him." 

"Did you? You were the only one who did – I sure as hell didn't." 

"It is what you were born to do. You are the Champion. I've always known that." 

He snorted quietly, staring out through the rain on the windscreen. "How's Methos?" 

She didn't answer at first, so he turned to look at her. Her expression was sober. "I almost asked you not to come." 

"Why? What's wrong with him?" Duncan asked sharply. "Cassandra, he's not here because...?" 

"Because I wanted revenge?" she finished his question with slight amusement in her voice. "No, Duncan. I got that out of my system a while ago. It's complicated, but he and I have made a peace of sorts. My concern is that he's very unsure of himself now. What happened...what we endured – what _he_ endured, and more importantly the timing of it...." Her voice trailed away. 

"You're not making a lot of sense, Cassandra. Are you saying he's crazy?" 

"Not by most people's standards, no. By his own, perhaps. I'll take you to him, but I am telling you – he cannot take any more pain. Especially not from you." 

Duncan frowned at her words. "From me? I don't want to hurt him. I wouldn't be here if I wanted to do that." 

"Perhaps not, but... Duncan, he will try to hide what's in his heart, in his mind, to protect you. He feels ashamed, and he feels he cannot face his friends. Looking, listening to him will not be enough. You must use your heart. See him with your heart." 

Frustrated at the obliqueness, he nearly snapped back at her, before remembering she too had endured much. More than that, it seemed she really was trying to help Methos, extraordinary as that was to contemplate. "I promise you, I don't want to hurt him. I miss him." 

"You need to tread carefully. You might be surprised at what you see, but it's taken us a year to get to the point where he can tolerate anyone but me coming near him. At least now I think your visiting him will not send him to ground." 

"You make him sound as if he's had a nervous breakdown." 

Her beautiful green eyes looked at him steadily. "I think that's exactly what happened to him." 

Duncan hissed in a breath. Bad enough that he'd gone mad for a while after he killed Richie – but Methos, the man who seemed the epitome of sanity? "Why don't you take me to him?" 

The converted croft was only a kilometre outside Glenfinnan – Cassandra explained that Methos had taken a long let on a place whose owner had got a contract in America and had been glad to get a reliable tenant. More than that, she didn't explain. 

There was no vehicle outside the whitewashed building, but as Mac drew up in his own car and got out, he could already feel the song of Methos' presence. A moment later and Methos himself appeared in the doorway. Anonymously dressed in jeans and thick sweater, hair longer than Duncan remembered it. Thinner than he remembered him too, and wearing no smile of welcome. 

"Methos?" Duncan said uncertainly. 

"Mac," Methos acknowledged finally, but he didn't move from the doorway. 

Duncan walked over to him. "It's good to see you," he said with feeling. Methos was thinner in the face too, and his eyes looked lost. 

"Good...to see you," Methos said haltingly, staring at him. Duncan couldn't stand the distance between them any more and put his hand out. Methos clasped it immediately. "Damn, Mac, I was so worried about you." 

Duncan gripped his hand tightly. "Yeah. Me too." 

"You, uh, cut your hair," Methos added, almost shyly. 

"Yeah, I figured it was time for a change." He held his friend's hand for a few more precious moments. "So, are you going to invite me in?" 

To his surprise, Methos' eyes flicked over his shoulder, behind Duncan to where Cassandra stood silently. Apparently getting her approval, he nodded. "Yes, of course." 

Duncan let his hand go, and Methos stepped aside to let him into the house. 

Many Scottish crofts had been bought in the past few years by wealthy English people seeking an escape from the bustle of London, and as was typical, very little of the original rough interior remained in this one. The layout was familiar to Duncan, but the owner clearly liked his comforts. It wasn't outlandishly modern, at least. He noted these details automatically, but what caught his attention immediately was the dark-haired girl dressed in a tidy school uniform, sitting at the table, drawing. She grinned as Methos came in after Duncan. "Adam! I finished the phoenix!" She got up and ran to Methos, who knelt and gravely examined the drawing. 

"Yes, I think that's quite good now. What about the flames? Can't be a phoenix without flames." 

"I know," she whined a little. "I was working on the feathers." 

"And very nice feathers they are. Shona, we've got a guest. Meet Duncan MacLeod." 

She turned to him. "Oh. Hello, Mr MacLeod," she said prettily, holding out her hand. "I'm Shona Lawrence. Nice to meet you." 

Duncan smiled at the formal politeness and took her little hand. "Nice to meet you, Miss Lawrence. I'm Duncan. Can I call you Shona?" 

"Och, everyone does. Adam's teaching me how to draw." 

"Is he?" 

Cassandra stepped up and the child turned to her. "Mum, is Duncan staying for tea? Did you get a cake?" 

Duncan started at the 'Mum' but Cassandra ignored his surprise. "No, Shona," she said. "I got some of the shortbread instead, will that do?" 

"Yay!" the child said happily. "Adam, will I put the kettle on?" 

"Why don't you do that?" he said. 

"Adam, here are the biscuits," Cassandra said, extracting a paper bag from her backpack. "Why don't you set up and we'll join you." 

He nodded and followed the girl out of the room. Duncan turned to Cassandra. "Okay – explanation?" 

She motioned him to sit. "Shona's my daughter. Adam looks after her after school until my friend Jane finishes work. She stays with Jane during with the week and comes back with me on the weekends. Lately, we've been staying here on weekends." She explained briefly how she'd come to adopt the little girl as a child. 

He stared at her in amazement. "You never told me." 

She avoided his gaze. "There wasn't a reason to tell you." 

Intellectually, Duncan knew Methos must have been a parent at least once or twice, but that Cassandra of all people would entrust him with her own child was simply astonishing. "You let him look after her? Things must have really changed." 

Then she did look at him. "Yes, Duncan. They have. That's what I told you." 

"I've never seen him with a child before." 

"He's very good with her. And she with him. She adores him," she said with a small smile. 

"But you don't exactly hate him either." 

"No," she sighed. 

"Friends?" 

Her mouth twitched. "We've agreed on fellow travellers, for the moment. Not enemies, not any more. It's all too long ago." 

"That's not how you felt last year." 

"A lot of things have changed, Duncan." 

"What happened to you?" 

She shook her head and her smile disappeared. "I don't want to tell you." 

"Will he tell me?" 

"If you ask. Whether you should ask, I can't say – but it's not something he will enjoy talking about. I wouldn't be in a hurry to bring it up." 

Duncan could hear the sounds of Methos and Shona chatting, his deep, quiet baritone interleaved with her higher pitched, happy voice. "Are you staying here tonight? Should I have booked a B&B?" 

"He's expecting you to stay. I think he wants it that way. Shona will go home to Jane's, and I will stay with her. If you – either of you – need me, he has the number." 

"You think he'll need help? From you?" 

She sat a little more straight, but her tone was even. "We take our comfort where we can, Duncan. I haven't forced him to do anything." 

"Cassandra ..." he started to apologise but she shook her head again. 

"Not now, Duncan. I suggest you and he talk. You will need to listen not just to what he says, but also to what he doesn't say." 

"Tea's up!" Shona called. 

Cassandra stood. "Come," she said briefly and walked out of the room. 

The kitchen was a lot less modernised than the rest of the house, with a large Aga that provided warmth and the hot water for the tea. Methos asked Shona to pour, which she did with the same grave formality that she had shown earlier. But once she had poured out all the cups, she pounced on a piece of shortbread. "Yum," she pronounced. 

In addition to the delicious biscuits, there was most of a large fruitcake. Duncan was happy to eat the bounty, as he was hungry from his long drive north from Glasgow airport. He noticed that Methos and Cassandra both ate several bits of cake, with a dedication he'd seen in refugees who'd known starvation – as if the food was precious and might be taken away if they dallied over it. So, he realised – they had been starved in addition to everything else they might have endured. 

He noticed Methos frequently looked at Cassandra – for reassurance? – and avoided Duncan's eyes. Shona chatted happily to all of them and it was clear that Cassandra had said the truth, the child adored his friend, and regarded him as the font of all wisdom. Which he was, perhaps, from a certain point of view. 

Of his own recent doings, Duncan said little. They were hardly fit for a child's ears, and he knew Cassandra and Methos were both aware for the reason for his reticence. Shona asked him a few questions, but seemed mainly interested in the next thing Methos was going to show her how to draw. "Are you a good artist, Shona?" Duncan asked. 

"She's very talented," Methos answered with apparent sincerity and somewhat to Duncan's surprise, since he'd said nothing directly to him since they'd sat down. "Shona, why don't you get your portfolio?" 

She left immediately to fetch it. "Not just humouring her?" Duncan asked. 

Cassandra glared at him. "He doesn't do things like that," she said crossly. 

He held his hands up. "Sorry, sorry. No insult intended." 

Methos smiled, in sharp contrast to his solemn demeanour. "Shona can defend her own reputation. I don't believe in false praise. Oh, here it is." He cleared the table a little and the girl spread her drawings out. 

Duncan didn't know her age – eight? nine? – but her drawings, while childish, showed real promise and were pleasing to his experienced eye. "They're very good, Shona," he said sincerely. He extracted a portrait of sharp, familiar features. "Now, this I like a lot." 

She pulled a face. "Oh, he was such a nuisance for that, he wouldn't stay still," she pouted, then smiled at Duncan. "Can I draw you? You're not too ugly for a man." 

Cassandra muffled a laugh, and even Methos grinned. "Well, if you'd like. It wouldn't be the first time." 

"Can I draw you now?" she said eagerly, but her mother put a hand on her arm. 

"Not now, love, we need to be getting home to Jane. Besides, Adam and Duncan haven't seen each other for a while, they have lots to talk about." 

"Okay," Shona said, a little downcast. "Tomorrow?" she said hopefully. "How long will you be staying?" 

Duncan looked at Methos. "I'm not sure. A couple of days." Methos' expression gave him no clue as to what – if anything – he wanted him to say. But there was no rejection either. Duncan cleared his throat. "Adam, I was hoping to stay here." 

"Where else would you stay, Mac?" Methos said a little sharply, then flushed and looked away. "I'm sorry." 

"Don't worry about it. Well, I'll get my bags then, okay?" 

Cassandra stood when he did. "We should be going too. Adam, Shona and I will leave you and Duncan be tomorrow, but you can get us at Jane's, if you want." He looked at her gratefully and nodded. He didn't stand up. 

"I'll finish that phoenix, Adam," Shona assured him. 

"You do that, and you can show me when I see you. Now off you go." She hugged him quickly, throwing her arms around his neck, and he flushed again, but this time with pleasure. 

Duncan walked Cassandra out to the car. "Do you want a lift?" The rain was still falling gently, but she refused politely. 

"It's not far, and the rain won't hurt us." Shona had already donned a waterproof over her uniform and pack, and Cassandra was pulling hers out of her own backpack. "You will be careful, Duncan?" 

"I'll treat him with respect, Cassandra. He's my friend." 

Her mouth moved as if she was going to say something, but she didn't. "Then I'll see you tomorrow, or perhaps the next day. Let you two discuss what you need to. It'll take a while, I think." 

He waved them off. He turned and saw Methos had come to the doorway, standing silently and watching his guests leave. "I didn't want to make any assumption about staying here," Duncan said quietly. "I didn't mean to cause offence." 

Methos smiled briefly. "It's all right, Mac. Come in out of the rain." 

Back in the kitchen, Methos filled the kettle again. "I'm going to top up the pot, if you want more tea." 

"Yeah, sure." He watched Methos move slowly around the kitchen and tidy, fiddling about. Delaying. Duncan waited until the kettle was back on the stove, but there was no sign of conversation being resumed. "Methos?" 

"Just give me a minute." 

Methos stood at the sink, staring out the window, facing away from him. He waited for a few minutes but when it was obvious Methos wasn't going to turn around, he stood and walked over to him, coming to rest with his back to the sink so he could see Methos' face. 

His friend was tense to the point of trembling and his lips were pressed together. He wouldn't look at Duncan. 

"Methos?" Duncan said gently. "Come and sit down." When he didn't move, Duncan took his arm and tugged a little. "It'll be okay," he said meaninglessly. 

Methos allowed him to lead him back to the table, and sat with his head hanging while Duncan took over topping up the pot, cutting a little more cake and pouring out two cups of tea. "I'm sorry. I thought I'd be fine." 

"It's okay. Take it slow, Methos." 

Methos inhaled deeply then lifted his head. He smiled uncertainly. "You're going to get the impression that you're not welcome." 

Duncan reached for one of Methos' hands. "Am I?" 

"You're always welcome. It's not you." 

Duncan wasn't sure about that, but he had to accept what he was told. "Tea?" 

Methos took the cup and sipped slowly, and visibly relaxed. Duncan had time, he could wait. He kept hold of Methos' hand. 

After a while, Methos broke the silence. "How's Joe?" 

"Worried." 

"About you?" 

Duncan smiled ruefully, "About you, me, his daughter...." 

"Daughter?" Methos asked, startled. "Okay, you've got my full attention. Spill." 

Still holding Methos' hand, Duncan explained how Joe's secret daughter, also a Watcher, had got herself tangled up with her assignment, and Duncan had had to help extract the woman from the clutches of one Morgan Walker. He wasn't ready for Methos' reaction. "Walker? Morgan Walker?" 

"Do you know him?" 

"You could say that. You took his head, I hope." 

"I did. Not a nice man. Hope he wasn't a friend." 

"Not every psychopath who knows me is a friend," Methos said tartly, but his hand was cold under Duncan's touch. 

"I know that, Methos. I don't think Walker was anyone's friend. How did you know him?" 

"Does it matter? He's dead." 

Duncan shrugged. "I'm just curious. If it's a painful memory, though, never mind." 

"No. Well, yes, a little. You know I was a doctor?" 

"Yes, in Heidelberg." 

"Not just then." Duncan waited as Methos collected his thoughts. Then he spoke again. "It was in America – I'd come away to escape...well, to be honest, I left to get away from Gordon." 

"Byron?" 

"He was becoming a danger to be around," Methos said simply. "I loved him but...you know." 

"I can guess," Duncan said grimly. "So, you were in America, and?" 

"I was working in New Orleans. Set up a little practice. Occasionally I was asked to help a slave whose master was too cheap or too cruel to call in medical help. Word got around after I did it once, passed from one household to the next, until I had something of a reputation of a sympathiser." 

"Doesn't...." 

"...Sound like me, yes, MacLeod, I knew you'd say that," Methos said, annoyance clear in his voice. 

"Well it doesn't," Duncan pointed out calmly. "It was risky, for a start." 

That placated Methos a little. "Not really. The slaves were nicer people to talk to, mostly, than my clients, and so long as I didn't help any of them escape or rebel, their owners didn't care. They thought I was a fool, of course, but that in itself protected me from reprisal." 

Duncan had to admire the logic. "So?" 

"One of Walker's slaves – his mistress – asked me to help the son of her friend. I went to the house, helped her and...." Methos looked down at his cup and Duncan realised what had happened. 

"You, uh, showed her your bedside manner?" 

"Something like that." 

"I hope she was pretty." 

Methos' eyes went a little misty. "Charlotte was exquisite. A mulatto, as a lot of the women the white masters took were. Soft, and sweet." 

Duncan recognised the sad nostalgia. "Something happened to her?" 

Methos nodded. "Walker came back. I bolted, thinking I'd got out before he'd have worked out what had happened, but he threw her out of an upper story window." 

"Jesus!" 

"Indeed. As you said, not a nice man. Killed her, Challenged me. I declined to give him the satisfaction of a public duel over a slave, and he hated my guts for it. He couldn't very well do anything about it then, and I packed up and moved away. I'd hoped the bastard had lost his head. I'm glad you killed him," he added venomously. 

"I'm sorry about the girl. Another innocent victim." 

"Of him or of me?" 

"Walker, of course. God, Methos – if we got a woman killed every time we slept with somebody's lover, I'd be the most guilty of us all!" 

Methos smiled a little at that. "She wasn't his lover. She was his slave. At least someone made love to her before she died who wanted her for herself, not just because she was a possession." 

"Aye." 

The silence extended. They sat like that for a long time, while the shadows lengthened and the pot emptied slowly. They didn't talk, but it was easier than he thought, to sit quietly in his friend's company. He'd always enjoyed being with Methos – well, when there wasn't some damn crisis demanding their attention. It was something he'd forgotten. 

Eventually his bladder demanded that he move, so he stood and put his hand on Methos' shoulder. "Bathroom?" 

Methos straightened up. "Uh, through there," he pointed. 

Duncan made a quick visit, and found Methos standing up, waiting for him on his return. "I'll show you your room." 

"Okay." 

Duncan collected his bags and Methos led the way to a small bedroom at the top of the narrow stairs. "It's heated, not that I suppose you'd mind if it wasn't. I'm through there," he indicated the other door. "Uh, why don't I let you unpack? I'll be downstairs in the living room." He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but then he ducked out of the room without another word. 

Duncan put a few things away, then sat on the bed, thinking hard. Of all the things he had expected, this diffident, uncertain Methos was the last thing he'd imagined. Maybe he should have. He'd come to realise his ancient friend was prone to bouts of depression, and had been rather lonely since Alexa died – not the best background to being captured and tortured by a psychopath for two months. And Duncan had not been there to help. Had that made a difference? 

From what Cassandra was saying, it obviously had, and his presence was clearly affecting Methos deeply. Whether for good or ill, he wasn't sure. He just got the feeling that Methos wanted him to stay more than he wanted him to leave. 

When he returned to the living room, Methos looked more relaxed. "Pre-prandial Scotch, Mac? It's a little early." He spread his hands to indicate that such formalities meant little to him. 

"I'd like that, actually. Shall I?" He'd spotted the glasses and bottle on the sideboard. 

Methos nodded, so he poured them both a healthy slug, handing Methos his glass. "Are we drinking to anything?" 

"How about your safe return? " Methos said seriously. 

"And yours." Abruptly Methos put his drink down and stared at his hands. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you didn't want me to mention it." 

He continued to stare at his hands. "It's okay. I'll tell you about it, I really will, just – later." 

"Yes, of course. I don't want to cause you any more pain, Methos." 

"I know." His hands clenched into fists. Duncan leaned over and touched him. Methos' head jerked up. 

"Am I making you nervous?" 

"No.... no, it's okay. I guess I've got out of the habit of people." 

"Except for Shona. You've made a conquest there." 

It was the right thing to say, because Methos suddenly smiled. "She's lovely, isn't she? Cassandra has really done a great job with her." 

"She's done a good job with you," Duncan said gently, holding his breath to see if he set Methos off again. But he only smiled a little. 

"Something of a surprise, I bet." 

"Just a little." 

"I couldn't have made it without her, Mac. Her and Shona." Methos hands were fisting again, and Duncan put his own hand over one of them. 

"Joe would have helped you." 

"I couldn't face him, Mac." He looked away. 

"We don't have to talk about this, Methos. I'll be here a few days." 

"Yes. I'm sorry, just give me a little time." Duncan kept his hand where it was, and after a moment, Methos' free hand came and covered their joined hands. He decided the only thing to try was the direct approach. 

"Methos, tell me what you want me to do. Do you want me to stay quiet, talk, stay, go...." 

"No! Mac, don't go. Oh, damn it!" Methos tore himself away and out of his chair. "I'm so _fucking_ sick of this!" 

"Sick of what?" Duncan asked quietly. He'd had no idea.... 

"Sick of...sick of feeling so lousy for a start! Sick of being afraid, of being.... Duncan...." His eyes said what his words could not. 

Speech had reached its limit. Duncan approached Methos slowly. Since touch worked before, he tried it again, holding his arms out. "Methos, you're safe," he said as gently as he could. "I'm here now." He didn't dare say more even though he was beginning to realise that Methos' feelings for him were as involved as his own. Just let Methos come to him now.... 

The dark eyes darted about the room, their owner seeming to be seeking escape. "Mac – Mac, I'm sorry, I can't." 

"Just trust me, Methos." He came closer, and Methos twitched, as if he was about to run. "Come to me." 

Methos' eyes widened at his words, and he began to tremble. "Mac – I can't." 

"Come to me." Duncan lifted his hands, held them out and open in invitation. Methos made a strangled sound. "Methos," he whispered, stepping closer. He could touch Methos now. He reached a hand to his shoulder. Gently now.... 

Slowly, painfully slowly, he laid another hand on Methos, and drew him close, until the other man was in his arms, his head buried in Duncan's shoulder, his body rigid as steel. "Oh, Methos, what did they do to you?" Duncan said softly, stroking Methos' hair. "Let me help." He felt Methos try to pull away, but he held on and the impulse appeared to die. "Relax, I've got you." Over Methos' head, he scanned the room. "Why don't we sit down?" The sofa looked wide and comfortable. 

He walked them backwards to the chair, not letting Methos go even for a moment, and sat them down. Methos' face was still hidden against his sweater. His hand, which Duncan had clasped tight to his own chest, was icy, and his whole body shivered. Duncan kept up a gentle soothing movement on Methos' head and shoulder, his face laid close to Methos' own. "It'll be all right," he murmured. "I won't let you go." 

The deepening dusk had become complete night before Methos finally lifted his head, his face wet against Duncan's. "I am so sorry, Mac. I had no idea seeing you would...have this effect." 

Duncan stroked his hair back. He thought he knew, a little, of what had tipped Methos off his careful balance. "Stop apologising. I want to be here. I've missed you. No," he warned, as he felt the long body tense, "don't run away again. Stop, listen to me. I have things I want to say to you." 

Methos' eyes were hidden from him, but Duncan could guess they were wide and startled. "Mac – stop before you say something you'll regret." 

"I don't regret this. And neither do you." 

"No, I don't," Methos whispered. 

Duncan grasped Methos' chin carefully and tilted his face up. "Methos – I've had time, too much time, to think about things. About you. About us. And I've realised that I need you. I want you in my life." He laid his hand on Methos' cold cheek. "I want you in my heart," he whispered. There, he'd said it. 

Methos closed his eyes and shook his head against Duncan's hand. "But I have nothing to give you any more...." 

"You have you, Methos. No one can take that away." 

"He tried," Methos said, his voice cracking. His eyes opened, and Duncan almost wished them closed again, such was the pain he could see there. "Oh, God, I thought I was over this." 

"Shhh, it's okay," he soothed, brushing his hand over and over the cheek so close to him. "Just let me hold you. I've been wanting this for so long." 

"Me too," Methos whispered. "Mac, this is the wrong time." 

"It's never going to be the right time, if this isn't. You need someone, I want to be with you. Let me help you until you get back on your feet." 

Methos laughed shakily. "You have _no_ idea what you're saying." 

"Yes I do. Let me tell you about things." Duncan tucked Methos' head against his shoulder, his hand cradling the back of it. In a quiet voice, he told Methos about his missing year. About the torment of his guilt and his grief, and about how Ahriman had threatened and murdered, and tempted both Joe and him, trying to twist their minds and their comprehension. "But I won, eventually. At least, I think I did, unless you're secretly a millennial demon." He heard a damp chuckle. "I guess that means you aren't?" 

"No, I don't think so. I might be possessed, but I'm no demon." 

"You're not possessed." 

He heard a deep sigh. "No, I know." 

"What are you doing about it? Does Cassandra help?" 

"Oh yes. I've even helped her. We sort of broke down together." 

"I guess it was bloody bad then." 

"I lied to her, you know." Methos' voice sounded softly in the completely dark room. 

"When?" 

"At ...at the end, after we got out. She asked if it was the worst I'd ever endured. At the time, I didn't think it was. But it was, it really was. I wanted her to think I would get through. But I didn't." 

"Yes, you did. You're alive, Methos. Alive and safe. The rest are just details." 

He heard a derisive snort. A good sign, he thought. "Do you want to sit in the dark all night?" 

"I often do. The skies here are beautiful." 

"No stars tonight. It's all cloudy." 

"True," Methos sighed. 

Duncan rubbed his face against Methos' a little. "Would you like me to cook?" 

"I can cook, MacLeod." 

"I know. But I was hoping for something we could actually eat." He heard laughter again. "I brought you some wine from Paris." 

"Red or white?" 

"Red." 

"No good, we're having fish." 

"Hell, Methos, open a tin of baked beans for all I care." He stroked his fingers through Methos' hair and Methos pushed his head back into the touch. "I'm not that hungry. But I'd like to see your face." 

"Why don't we go into the kitchen, it's warmer." 

Duncan stood and half-lifted Methos to his feet. Now he'd been given permission to hold him, he was reluctant to lose contact even for the briefest moment. It was clear Methos felt the same, because he made not the smallest attempt to break free. On impulse, he caught Methos' face and kissed him on the lips, gently and without pressure. He felt Methos' surprise. "I'm sorry." 

"Don't be," Methos breathed. "Mac, sex...there's a problem." 

Duncan pulled him close again. "No, there isn't." He kissed him again, this time on the cheek. "I missed you." 

"I know the feeling. Come on, let me feed you. I can do that much at least." 

It was indeed warmer in the kitchen, and to Duncan's surprise, Methos lit a candle rather than turn on the electric light. "Do you have electricity supply problems?" 

"Here? No, I just like the light. It feels cosier when I'm on my own." He raised his eyes to Duncan, and seemed to realise how it sounded. "And I thought...it would be nicer." 

"Yes, it is. So – fish?" 

It turned out to be mackerel, from a friend of Cassandra's, and grilled and served with tarragon butter, was delicious. The red wine Duncan had brought was left for another time, and Methos opened a bottle of white. Just like old times, Duncan thought ruefully. It almost felt like they were back on the barge again. "Have you seen Amanda?" Methos asked suddenly. 

"A couple of months ago. She's started a new business with an ex-cop. A hotel, I think, or a nightclub. Mixture of the two." 

"An ex-cop? Hardly her style." 

Duncan smiled. "You'd be surprised – she claims she's gone straight." 

Methos sprayed him with wine as he laughed in surprise, and laughed again as he apologised and wiped up the mess. "God, Mac, that's the best joke I've heard in a hundred years. It won't last, you know that." 

"Well, you know, she's very fond of this Nick character...." 

"She hasn't gone and fallen in love with a mortal again, God preserve us." 

"Oh, it's worse than that. He's _pre_ -Immortal." 

Methos shook his head. "You're right, that makes it much, much worse. Does this poor guy know what he's getting into?" 

Duncan took another sip of wine. "No. I figured why should I ruin her fun?" 

Methos grinned, but then sobered. "Uh, so does this mean you're free to date?" 

Duncan caught his hand, and began to massage it carefully. "Yes, I guess it does. Are _you_ free to date?" 

"I...Mac, I...it's been a while. And with everything...." 

"I can wait. I've been waiting a long time." 

"How long?" Methos asked huskily. 

"Would you believe since the day I met you?" 

"Not for a New York minute." 

Duncan laughed. "Smart boy. I think it was when Claudia was staying with me." 

Methos went very still. "You mean, when I met Alexa?" 

"Yes. I'm sorry. I didn't begrudge you how you felt about her, but I wanted it to be me." 

He sat back and stared. "You realise I had absolutely no idea about all this." 

"You weren't supposed to," Duncan said dryly. "I had enough on my plate, thank you, without you too. We fight enough as friends." 

Methos grinned at that. "And now?" 

"And now we can fight in bed, if you want. Or not." 

"Mac." 

The shutters were coming down again. "I don't want to push you." 

"Mac – fuck, I need another drink." Silently, Duncan filled Methos' glass again and pushed it over to him. "Something stronger, I meant." 

"I'll get you a scotch," but Methos shook his head. "What?" 

"No, no, ignore me. The wine is fine." 

Something else was going on here, Duncan realised. 

He looked at his friend, looked at his hands twisting, not touching his glass. Heard the rawness as he'd asked for a stronger drink. "Alcohol never helped me much either," he said carefully. 

Methos swore and knocked the wine glass over angrily. "I'm not an alcoholic, MacLeod." 

"I didn't think you were. I think you're in pain. I wish that hearing how I feel didn't make the pain worse." 

Methos righted the glass and mopped the spilled drink up carefully with his napkin. "It doesn't. Mac, it's not you." Duncan seized his wrist, and Methos looked up, startled. 

"I know. But one day, will you tell me what it really is? When it doesn't hurt so much?" 

"You said you didn't want to push, and here you go, pushing," Methos snapped angrily, tossing the wet napkin towards the sink. "Why do you need to know? Want to write a manual? Planning to take notes?" 

"Methos!" 

Methos ignored him. "Will it enrich your life to know every sordid, sodding detail of what that bastard did to me? Do you want numbers or volumes? Do you want to know how long I held out? How often I died?" 

"Methos, stop it! Stop it now!" Methos was trembling with anger, and his face had gone white. Duncan leaped up and grabbed Methos by his shoulders. "Don't do this to yourself!" 

He raised his hands as if to shove Duncan away, but then he just rested them on Duncan's chest and bowed his head. "I shouldn't have said that." 

"It's okay. I don't need to hear about any of it, you're right. I only want to help. I'm not very good at this kind of thing." 

"No reason why you should be," Methos said shakily. "Oh, God, Mac. I thought I was doing so fucking well." 

"You were, you are. It just takes time, you know that. Don't tell me you haven't been through this before." 

"Not for a very long time, Duncan. Not in two thousand years." 

Duncan had assumed that Methos' long life had inured him to abuse, but it was a foolish assumption, he now saw. "Let's sit down." 

This time he sat next to Methos on the bench set and kept his arm around him. Methos took a deep breath and looked at him. "I guess I should try to explain something of it. What did Joe tell you?" 

"Not a lot. He said you told him that an ex-lover of Kronos came after you and Cassandra, kidnapped you, tortured you both for two months, and then you escaped. That about the strength of it?" 

"Yes. You can probably imagine what they did to her, as a woman." 

"I think I can. You too?" 

Methos began to shake again. Duncan tightened his grip, and trapped the hand that was clenching on the table. "Yes," Methos said. "That and the rest of it. He liked toys. Invented them. Specialised...specialised...." His voice broke off as if he was having troubled breathing. 

"It's okay, don't say it...." 

"Dammit! He made torture equipment, okay? Electrical shock prods, heating rods, spikes. He could use anything – water even." Methos covered his mouth as if he was going to throw up. 

"Stop. I don't need to know this, you don't need to tell me." 

Methos shook his head violently. "I...I completely lost it. If Cassandra hadn't been there, I'd have begged to die. Only because I had that tiny shred of pride that made me not want to degrade myself completely before her. She saved my life. Literally." 

"And you saved hers," Duncan said quietly. "Or did she get out on her own?" 

"He wasn't going to kill her, he said that." 

The candle was guttering, and Methos' face was mostly in shadow, but the firelight caught the sparkle of tears on his lashes. "You saved her. She saved you. I'm proud of you both. Proud to call you friends." Methos tried to stand then, a small sound of distress escaping him. "No, don't. Methos, how can you be ashamed? I've never experienced pain like that, hope I never will, but I've known men who have. All of them – every one of them – cracked. Resisting torture is a myth – if they keep it up long enough, everyone is broken. Everyone." 

Methos shuddered. "The worst thing...wasn't even the pain. He...came into the cell...with a sword. Him and this... thug...said my time was up. Made Cassandra watch them. I...he.... Mac -I can't, I can't." 

"Hush, don't do this," Duncan murmured against his ear, pulling him close. A mock execution, he thought angrily. It usually left the victim a helpless wreck. "Was he just after revenge? Because of Kronos?" 

Methos wouldn't look at him, and didn't answer. "Methos, was he after something else?" 

"He's dead. None of it matters now." 

There was something else, Duncan realised, but if he pushed now, Methos would collapse, and it would serve no purpose at all. Least of all to help the man in his arms whose breathing was coming out in sobs, and who was in too much distress for any of this. So he just sat, and stroked Methos, kissing his hair and murmuring soothing, meaningless words of affection. It felt indecent to him that he enjoyed holding Methos even in this state. It had been too long, waiting – almost too late. He'd returned from Malaysia not sure if Methos could accept him, only to find that their turbulent friendship had changed once again. 

_Thank God I came,_ he thought. _Thank God you escaped, Methos. And thank God Cassandra was here to help you._

"Do you want to join me in bed?" he murmured, after Methos seemed to be a little easier. "It's been a long day. Or we can talk in the morning." 

He felt Methos stiffen. "Mac...I can't. I sleep badly, I can't. I'm sorry." 

"No, it's okay, don't apologise. I just thought we'd be more comfortable. We can stay here." 

But Methos was already pushing himself out of Duncan's hold and reluctantly, he let him go. Methos stood and straightened himself up, brushed his hair back with a hand that shook a little, and avoided Duncan's eyes. "I think I will go to bed though. I don't sit up late any more. Will you be okay? Can you find everything? I'll wash up in the morning." 

"Leave that to me. Get some rest, Methos. Are you sure you don't want me to be with you? We don't have to...." 

Methos shook his head. "No," he said sharply. "I can't, Mac," he said more quietly. "It's not you." 

"I know." He stood up and took Methos' hands. He lavished caresses not only on Methos' mouth, but gentle busses on his eyelids too, and a last touch to his forehead. "Sleep well," he said quietly. "I'll be here in the morning." 

With a smile, Methos detached, and left him to go up the stairs. Duncan stood there for a moment, thinking about how good Methos had tasted. Then, with a sigh, he began to clear up. 

He wasn't actually that tired, and he felt restless, trying to absorb all that he had learned that day, thinking about the abrupt and welcome change in his relationship with Methos. He was under no illusions that things would be easy in the future. Even at the height of their friendship, the older Immortal could effortlessly drive him mad. Now, with Methos so off-balance and skittish, he would have to tread extremely carefully just maintain him as a friend, let alone as a lover. 

He needed to talk to Cassandra again, he decided. And after an hour sitting staring into space, he decided he ought take himself to bed too. 

He used the bathroom and climbed the stairs – the door to Methos' bedroom was open, and to his surprise, he saw there was the dim glow from a night light in the corner. 

He stood at the doorway for a moment – his Presence fortunately not disturbing the sleeping man – and then heard a gentle sound. He took a couple of steps into the room – it was Methos, muttering in a language Duncan didn't recognise. He drew a little closer. Methos was clasping a pillow tightly to himself, his hands in clenched fists, and a steady stream of guttural noises came from him, no louder than a whisper. 

Duncan came to stand by the side of the bed, and the soft light glinted off the traces of wet on Methos' face. He was crying in his sleep, Duncan realised to his shock. 

Was this why Methos didn't want to share a bed with him? Because he knew what a bed mate would see? 

Quickly Duncan stripped out of his shoes and jeans, and climbed on the bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard. Methos didn't move, or wake, which surprised Duncan. Normally he was a light sleeper. 

He began to card his fingers gently through the unruly hair, hoping the soothing motion would help. And it did, within a minute or two, because he saw Methos' hands unclench a little and the muttering stop. He moved closer, and pulled Methos' head against his leg so he could stroke his back. Methos was wearing flannel pyjamas, he saw, buttoned all the way up. Something else that was new – when he'd stayed at the barge, he'd only worn boxers and a T-shirt when camped on the couch, and that only, Duncan suspected, because sleeping in the raw was likely to cause far too much comment. He'd never seen him in pyjamas. 

With a little sigh, Methos nuzzled against Duncan's leg, and his hands curled lightly over his thigh. Duncan eased the pillow away from the sleeping man, then he got up and slipped under the covers. Methos immediately snuggled up against him and Duncan wrapped his hand around the back of Methos' head, holding him close. _Ah, Methos,_ he thought, _it'll be fine, you'll see_. 

Sometime later, he woke. Methos was struggling against his encircling arms which he must have put around him out of habit. Duncan let him go, and put a hand on his face. "Easy, Methos," he said in a low voice. "You're safe." 

Methos' eyes snapped open. "Mac? What? What are you doing here?" 

Duncan stroked his cheek. "You seemed to be upset. When I sat next to you, it seemed to help, so I stayed." 

"Oh." Methos moved back a little. "Well, I'm okay now," he said stiffly. 

"You want me to go?" 

"I don't recall asking you to stay in the first place." 

"No, but I assumed you were just embarrassed." 

"I just want some privacy, okay?" 

Hurt by the snappish tone, Duncan got up and Methos immediately seized the pillow he'd been using, curling around it in the strange, painful looking position in which Duncan had originally found him. He put his hand on Methos' shoulder. "You know, you could hold me, instead of that." 

Methos looked at him over the pillow. "Mac," he whispered. Duncan sat down beside him. "The night...my dreams." 

"Are you afraid I'll leave?" Methos closed his eyes and nodded. 

Gently, Duncan pulled Methos' arms away from the pillow, and then hauled him up and to his chest. 

"Hold me, Methos. Let me hold you." 

"Duncan," Methos whispered. 

Duncan kissed his hair. A small noise then. "Will you let me lie down again?" 

Methos nodded against his chest. Duncan got him to move back and then got back under the covers, keeping as much of a hold on him as he can. "It'll be all right, you know. Eventually it will be all right." So he had to hope. 

Methos clung to him all night, his hands fisted tight in the sweater Duncan had not had a chance to remove. He seemed to sleep and there was no resumption of the muttering nor of the weeping, but he lay rigid and unmoving in what could hardly be called a relaxed position. He seemed to be using Duncan's body almost like a shield. 

Duncan found it hard to get to sleep for worrying about his companion, and when he did, he still woke from time to time. The last time, he realised that it was starting to be light outside, which meant it was nearly eight. He moved to stretch a cramping leg and Methos stirred, his eyes opening suddenly. "You stayed," he said. 

"Of course. How do you feel?" 

Methos shrugged. "All right." He reached over and caressed Mac's face, before leaning in for a gentle, non-threatening kiss. "Sorry for freaking out on you. Guess it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be." 

Duncan grinned wryly. "I don't want to sound egotistical, but my bed partners are usually a _little_ more enthusiastic than that." 

"Mac, it's...." 

"Not me, yes, you said." He leaned in for a kiss to show he wasn't angry. "Methos, are you afraid of the dark?" 

Methos moved back to look at him. "No, of course not." 

"But the night light?" 

"Oh." His face shuttered again. 

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me." 

"It's just one of the things I have to do to get through the day, Mac," he said in a dull tone. "The pillow makes me feel more secure that I won't be attacked in my sleep, the light helps me remember where I am when I wake up. Otherwise I forget, think I'm back in the cell and voila! Instant panic attack." 

His tone was flat, but his eyes were miserable. Duncan kissed his forehead. "Am I as good as the pillow?" 

"Oh yes. Better. While you're here. When you leave, I'll have to use it again. Cassandra suggested a stuffed animal but the pillow is less...controversial." 

Duncan looked for any sign that Methos was being ironic, but he was apparently completely serious. "I want to be here for you to hold. I don't want you to use something that doesn't hold you back." 

Methos closed his eyes, which Duncan now recognised was his way of hiding his thoughts. It was too early in the morning, he thought, for such a deep conversation. "What's with the PJs?" he asked. They really were unattractive, especially as they hid a body Duncan longed to see. Methos didn't respond, and Duncan suddenly realised they must be another coping mechanism. "You were kept naked?" 

Methos opened his eyes. "Yes," he whispered. "Chained and starved and naked. Nowhere to sleep but a concrete floor, when I was allowed to sleep, which wasn't often. And I usually woke up to find I was being dragged out...dragged to the room." 

"You were taken to be tortured," Duncan said flatly. 

He nodded. "Just let's say, don't ever wake me up suddenly. It's not a pretty sight." 

"God, Methos. Why? What did he want?" 

"Kronos. Left him a note before he left to look for me. He knew Cassandra was hunting him, gave him her details." 

"And yours?" 

"Enough, at least." What did that mean? 

But Methos was shivering slightly, and Duncan knew this conversation had to stop. "Would you like me to make you breakfast in bed?" 

Methos eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you serious? I'm not ill, MacLeod." 

"No, I know. I just like eating breakfast in bed with my lovers." 

He looked up at him from under his long lashes. "Are you calling me your lover after one night of cuddling?" 

Duncan laid his hand over Methos' heart. "Sex isn't the issue." 

"Not for a while, it's not going to be," Methos muttered. 

"Are you ...?" Duncan stopped, aware of the delicacy of the enquiry. "Are you impotent?" 

Methos laughed bitterly and freed himself from Duncan's hold. He sat up and wrapped his arms around himself. "I have no idea. I haven't had the faintest urge to find out. Nothing below the neck is of any interest to me any more." 

"Well, it's a good thing the brain is the sexiest organ in the body, isn't it?" Duncan joked, even though Methos' words caused him pain. 

If anything, Methos became even more defensive in his posture. "Mac, I know you're trying to be supportive, but will you stop and think for a moment? You love sex. You're a sexy guy, very physical. I can't even think about it without feeling sick. Not even with you, and God knows I've wanted you for so bloody long." 

Duncan put his hand on Methos' arm and rubbed it a little. "You don't mind me touching you?" 

"Not...not like that, no. Or kissing. They...." He shut his mouth tight and looked away. 

"Does everything remind you of them?" Duncan asked, horrified. 

"Nearly everything. Tastes, sounds. Absence of sound. Touches. It's why I like being around Shona. Nothing about her reminds me of that time." 

Duncan touched his cheek, and Methos leaned against his hand. "I think I should stop making you talk about this and feed you. Any preferences?" 

"Food is food, Mac. No. Anything you make, I'll enjoy." 

And that, Duncan realised, could be taken two ways. It gave him a lot to thing about as he mixed eggs and pancake batter, made coffee and piled everything onto a tray. It'd been a while since he'd made breakfast in bed for anyone, and he smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs. 

Methos was out of bed and sitting in the chair, a bathrobe over the hideous pyjamas. He was staring out the window at the rain. "I never appreciated weather so much before," he said wistfully. "Not until I couldn't see it at all." 

Duncan put the tray on the bed and came to stand behind Methos, his hands on his shoulders. He began to massage him gently. "Will you ever come back to Paris?" 

"Not soon. I...have a problem with people." He hung his head. "Pathetic, yes?" 

Duncan came around in front of him and knelt. "Methos, you're doing well. Better than I would be. It took me more than a year to stop weeping over Richie and that wasn't as bad as what happened to you." 

Methos covered his hand. "Mac, Richie's death was a great tragedy for you and for him. Don't try and diminish its importance, or compare it to what happened to me.You were blameless." 

"You didn't ask to be kidnapped!" Duncan said angrily, standing up 

Methos looked up at him. "Are you forgetting how it was I came to know Kronos at all? And he was right – I was responsible for his destruction." 

" _I_ killed him!" 

"And you were there because of me, remember?" 

"Methos, it's not your fault." 

"It's no one else's." 

"No one deserves to be treated like that!" 

"Sure about that, are you, MacLeod? Because you weren't last year. You were nearly ready to take my head when you found out what I'd done. Surely two months of torture and deprivation is a small price to pay for thousands of innocent deaths." 

"I did _not_ want to take your head," Duncan gritted, staring out of the window because he couldn't stand the bleakness on Methos' face. "And I would not want _anyone_ to be tortured like that. Not even Kronos. Kill him, yes, because he was threatening a lot of people. But, Jesus Christ, to break a man for revenge? No one should do that." 

He turned back to Methos whose head was hanging again. "No one has the right to do that to anyone," he said more gently. 

"Are you saying you've never killed, never wanted to hurt out of revenge? Because I have. I spent a thousand years killing and torturing because I hated the human race so badly. It seems only fair that it had a chance to hurt me back." His voice was shaking. 

Duncan knelt again and took the icy hands in his. "I'll say it again. No one has the right to hurt another human being like that. Not you, not him. Now come and have breakfast." He didn't wait for the other man to rise before bringing him a cup of coffee. "Drink this," he ordered. While Methos wrapped shaky hands around the warm drink, he brought over the plate of scrambled eggs he made, and cut up a pancake. He took the coffee from Methos, who seemed to have forgotten he was holding it, and handing him a food-laden fork. "Eat." 

"You must have Italian blood," Methos said, but his hand trembled as he took the fork. 

"Eat," he repeated gently. Methos took the food, but chewing and swallowing was clearly such an effort that Duncan took the fork out of his hand, laid it down, and put his arms out. Methos moved into his embrace immediately, breathing harshly into the material of his clothing. He could feel the hot moistness of his breath through his shirt. "Bloody hell," he said bitterly. "Is it this bad all the time?" 

He waited patiently while Methos fought to get his emotions under a semblance of control. "No," he said eventually. "Only when I talk about it." 

Duncan held on a little longer before pushing him back gently. Methos wiped his face on his arm. "I can't believe this," he said, his voice still wobbling. "Here you are, and all I can do is create over something that happened months ago." 

Duncan avoided the opening into more discussion. "Do you think you can eat breakfast? I can make you something lighter if you like." 

"The eggs are fine, Mac. Let me have my plate, and let me pretend I'm an adult man in control of himself for a while." 

Duncan pursed his lips over that but handed the food over with no comment. 

Methos ate steadily and with increasing calm, and by the time he was eating jam- smeared toast with a second cup of coffee, he looked better. Duncan vowed he wasn't going to bring up the kidnapping again, not that day, and he would do all in his power to deflect Methos away from the subject. 

He waited until Methos had filled himself to repletion before mentioning his ideas. "Methos, how long is your let on this place?" 

"Here?" he asked in surprise. "Well, Anthony's moved to America, and won't be back for a while. Another year at least. If I want it." 

"And do you?" 

"Yes, I do," he said quietly. "When Cassandra first asked me to come back with her, all I knew was that I needed to be away from Paris and Joe and anyone who was going to look at me like a freak. We stayed with Jane for a week or two, and then Jane mentioned this place was coming up for rent. I'd never thought about Scotland before – and the irony of _where_ in Scotland didn't escape me either, Mac," he smiled a little as he said it, "but I find it surprisingly congenial. I could stand a lot more of it. And as I don't need to work...well, I see no reason to leave." 

"Would you contemplate a house guest? I mean, for longer than a few days." 

Methos' eyes opened wide. "You? But what about Paris?" 

"A lot of bad memories there, Methos." He laid a hand on Methos' knee and rubbed gently. "And someone very precious to me right here." 

"But, the memories here – your family – Mac, I don't want you hurting over me." 

"This is my home too," he said quietly. "I miss Scotland, and maybe it's right for me that I spend some time here." 

"But for how long?" Methos asked sharply. 

"How long will you let me stay?" 

Methos laughed. "Longer than I think Anthony was planning to let this place for, for sure." He reached out a hand and touched Duncan's face. "Mac, you're welcome here. But you will be horribly disappointed." 

"Not in this lifetime," he said, holding the hand on his face and kissing the palm. "You were my friend from the moment I met you. I know it was meant to be that we were friends. And I'm sure we're meant to be lovers." He smiled. "You can't argue with fate." 

Methos groaned. "Oh, puh-lease, Mac. Spare me the Harlequin romance." But he was grinning. 

"I have one condition, though, if I stay." 

"What?" 

"If you're going to wear pyjamas, mustard with maroon stripes is _out_ , okay? If I have to look at these for another minute, I'm going to throw up." 

Methos plucked at them as if he'd never seen them before. "Oh. I never thought about that. You're right, they're revolting. Jane picked them up in Fort William." 

"I'll order you the best available, Methos. From Harrods if I have to." Methos went still, his hands frozen in place. "What?" 

"Not Harrods, please," he whispered. 

"Okay, not Harrods," Duncan said gently. He rubbed one clenched hand until it relaxed. "But I may have to enlist Joe's help if you want Paris fashion." 

That broke the spell. "Please, MacLeod, I love Joe, but he dresses like a Salvation Army reject." 

"Oh and Adam Pierson is just the height of haute couture, right?" 

"I blend in perfectly," Methos said with a welcome trace of his old snottiness. "Anyway, speaking of fashion...." He looked at Duncan and wrinkled his nose. 

Duncan looked at himself and had to admit at moment he was hardly GQ material. Bare legs, white underpants and a rumpled shirt and sweater. "You know I normally sleep in the nude." 

"Yes, I was aware of that," Methos said dryly, but not without humour. "Fuelled the odd fantasy here and there." 

"But maybe not a good idea at the moment." 

"I really don't know, Mac. That's why I wanted to sleep alone. One of the reasons. I can't imagine these against you exactly turn you on." 

Duncan grinned a little ruefully. "Well, me being turned on isn't important. I want to sleep with you again, if you'll let me. I'll wear a paper bag over my head or any other part of me if that helps." 

Methos laughed. "Talk about an offence against the gods, Duncan. Covering you up would be like covering up Michelangelo's 'David'." 

Now it was Duncan's turn to groan. "Not another one who wants me for my body." 

"It's a very nice body, Mac." Methos touched his face. 

"Why don't I shower and get dressed? It's been a long while since I walked this part of the world, and there's lots I'd like to see again." 

"I can't imagine anything I'd enjoy doing more," Methos said seriously. 

* * *

The rain had lifted a little by the time they left the house, but both of them wore waxed jackets nonetheless. He hadn't been lying to Methos, he really did want to spend some time in Glenfinnan, exploring old haunts again, even though every hill, every turn brought back memories, and many of them painful. But the hurt was no longer as raw as it had been, and just as he had managed to return to Seacouver eventually after Tessa's death, he could now be back in Scotland without Debra and his parents tearing a hole in his heart. They would have been dead long since anyway, he rationalised, and he knew his mother would not have wanted her son to leave his homeland forever on account of them. It helped that he had visited a couple of years before, and laid a few ghosts to rest. And fucking Kanwulf. 

The damp made it impractical to stop and talk for any length of time, so they walked and walked. Often in silence, but with no tension behind it. They didn't touch, for who knew who might see them or come across them, but they were never more than a foot apart all morning. They spoke mostly about Duncan's missing year, and the traumatic defeat of Ahriman. Methos admitted he was frankly baffled by the whole business. "Well, so was Joe," Duncan said. "Couldn't have done it without him." 

"I should have been there, Mac," Methos said, turning to him. "I could have helped you with so much of it." 

"Yes, you could, but it's over now. At least we survived. Richie didn't." 

Methos put his hand on his arm. "Mac," he said gently. "Yes, he died young. He might have died young anyway, the way he was going." 

"I miss him, Methos. Like my right arm." Duncan felt his face going hot and wet. _No_ he thought desperately. _I said 'no more tears'._

"Yes, you will. You will for a long, long time." 

And now it was Duncan's turn to be enfolded in Methos' arms. He had wanted Methos' help so much, he had wanted to talk to him about Richie, but he hadn't been there. "Joe doesn't understand," he choked. 

"About killing a student? No, I don't suppose he does. Or how much the Quickening of one we love hurts. But I do, Duncan. I understand." 

Duncan lifted his head, and Methos' warm lips were right there and he _needed_ them so badly. He covered them with his own, and Methos responded carefully, with tenderness, returning his desperation with kind strength, stroking back his curling hair. "Ah, Mac, it's hard to be the hero," Methos murmured. Duncan could only agree that it was hard. Didn't know about the hero bit. 

The rain chose that moment to become heavy again, and although they were in waterproof clothes, the dropping temperatures made it desirable to get in under shelter. They had ended up about half way between the village and Methos' house. "Uh, we could have a pub lunch," Duncan said, trying to regain control over his voice. 

He felt Methos stiffen and he recalled what Cassandra had said about him not tolerating the company of other people. "Or we could go home," he continued. 

"No, a pub would be nice," Methos said with an obvious attempt to be normal. 

"They'll be quiet around here, especially at this time of year." He pointed to a large white hotel a few hundred metres down the hill. "That's the _Prince's House_. It does meals, and it's got a good bar." 

Methos nodded, and then let him go. He touched Duncan's face. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm getting used to it." 

"Yes," Methos said simply. "Come on, this rain is getting to be a bit much." 

Another few minutes and they were at the hotel. Duncan was about to enter the lounge where lunchtime meals were advertised as being served, but Methos hung back. He turned and looked at him. "There's no one in there, Methos," he said quietly. "And I swear to God, no one will lay a hand on you while I'm there to prevent it." 

Methos forced a smile onto his face. "My champion, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Maybe you should carry my hanky." 

"Maybe you should get your butt in there and order us some beer." 

He held the door open and Methos stepped through, apparently calm, although Duncan could see the normal slouch was replaced by a straight backed rigidity which screamed stress to him. "I don't suppose you _like_ Scottish beer," he said, to distract him. 

"Not even slightly, Mac. But there's nothing finer than your whiskeys, and I can always drink Guinness." 

"Guinness? Up here? Don't be daft," he said. "Let me get you a decent single malt. Laguvullin?" 

"If you like. Or any of the Islays." 

He managed to manoeuvre them over to a table while Methos was distracted, and the older Immortal flinched only slightly as their young waitress brought over the menu. Methos had taken the chair with its back to the wall so he could see the bar, and it clearly reassured him. The bar _was_ quiet, and the only people who came in during the wait for their first course were two pensioner couples who clearly had their own favourite tables, well away from the strangers. "This is nice, don't you think?" Duncan said. 

Methos shrugged. "It'll do." 

"Do you come into the village at all?" There was little enough there, but there was a small shop at least. 

"Rarely. Cassandra... and Jane...have been very kind. The cash and carry will deliver too, for a price. I can go months without leaving the property around the house." 

"You know you'd be safe here," Duncan said in a low voice. 

"Cassandra was kidnapped right in the middle of the village, Mac. And you know damn well that if Kanwulf could hole up there, then any other Immortal could." 

"Methos...." 

"Don't _call_ me that," he snapped. Heads swivelled. "Damn you, do you want to get me killed?" 

"I'm sorry. Calm down, you're drawing attention to yourself." 

Methos stared down at the table. "I'm sorry," he muttered. 

"My mistake, I'm the one who's sorry. Adam, look at me." Reluctantly, Methos lifted his head. "You are safe with me. Just relax. And here comes our wine." 

Duncan indicated to the waitress that Methos would taste the wine, which he did and pronounced it acceptable. She poured out their glasses, assured them their starters would be right along, and left them alone to Methos' obvious relief. "Have you ever felt this way before?" Duncan asked 

"You mean frightened of my own shadow? Only after I left Kronos." 

"How long before you stopped?" 

"Two thousand years, Mac." 

"Seriously, Adam." 

"What makes you think I'm joking?" 

"You should have...." Duncan went quiet as the waitress brought their food and set the oysters on their shells before them. "You should have killed him all those years ago," he muttered when she'd gone. 

"Like you killed Kristen, right? And she was only a woman, should have been easy," Methos hissed. 

Duncan glared at him, conscious of the double standard he had set and unable to retort 'but that was different' because he wasn't sure it was, really. He changed the subject back. "This Lazlo guy is dead. Why are you so nervous?" 

"You think he was the only unexploded bomb my late, unlamented brother laid in place?" 

"But why come back here? You and Cassandra make easy targets, being together." Methos muttered something. "Pardon me?' 

"I said," Methos growled, "I promised to protect her. And I bloody well had nowhere else to turn, all right? God, Mac, you keep going on about that – are you jealous?" 

"Will you keep your voice down? We're going to get thrown out of here." 

"I don't care." 

"Well, I damn well do because this is a nice hotel, I plan on living in the village for a long time to come and I'd like to come back. Now calm down and eat those oysters." 

Methos glared at him, and shoved one slimy morsel into his mouth. He swallowed. "They're good," he admitted. 

"Yes, they are. Local produce. Now, for what it's worth, I'm not jealous, I'm just trying to understand. You know the last time I saw you two, things weren't exactly friendly." 

"No, and they weren't exactly friendly for a long time in the cells either. Cassandra is a remarkable woman. She was able to forgive me. I don't think I could have returned the favour." 

"You don't hold grudges. Not like that." 

"Oh you think so, huh? Ask me in a thousand years if I don't wish Ferenc Lazlo was alive so I could kill him all over again. Repeatedly and painfully. And then ask Cassandra if she thinks there's a material difference between him and what I was like when she knew me before." 

Duncan had no answer for that. "You're not like that now," he said in a low tone. 

"I know that. You've come to know that. Cassandra worked it out. But it was incredibly difficult for her. I admire her a lot for it." 

"You said you didn't remember her." 

"I lied," Methos said briefly and then turned his attention to the rest of the starter. 

They spoke no more while the main course was served and they ate. Duncan knew he had ruffled Methos' feathers in many ways, and regretted it since they had had such a peaceful morning. But at least his friend had retained his calm most of the time. In fact, if this was indeed his first visit to a pub since the attack, he was doing very well. 

Methos seemed to lose his animosity slowly, and by the time their plates were cleared, actually managed a genuine compliment to the waitress about the food. He declined a pudding, choosing coffee and another whiskey. "Are you feeling okay?" Duncan asked 

"Yes, I've calmed down again. Do you see what you have to put up with? I'm just not myself." 

Duncan smiled. "Really? You know, I hadn't noticed." 

And like him, Methos knew to what he referred and grinned. 

Since the rain still poured down, they spent another hour in the hotel until Methos looked at his watch. "Something up?" Duncan asked. 

"Oh, usually I would pick Shona up soon." 

"Would you like to do that?" 

Methos' eyes lit up. "Please. It's not like you're only going to be here a few days now, and I...enjoy her company." 

"She's a lovely kid, Me ...Adam." 

His slip went uncommented, and Methos was already standing up, preparing to pay the bill. Duncan would have protested, but he felt that Methos probably wouldn't be able to tolerate even a polite argument in public, so he waited while credit cards were taken and so on. Methos came to him, putting his wallet away. "If we go to Jane's, we can tell Cassandra, and you can chat to her while I collect Shona." 

Duncan found his eagerness touching and trailed along without complaint as Methos walked rapidly back up the steep hill. Jane McPherson's house was on the opposite end of the village to the hotel and Cassandra came out to greet them. "Well, I didn't expect to see you today." 

"We were here anyway, and I wondered if I could collect Shona as usual?" Methos asked diffidently. 

Cassandra smiled. "Methos, you can live without seeing her for one day, can't you? Poor Duncan will feel neglected." 

"Poor Duncan doesn't mind, if you don't." 

Cassandra shook her head. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she said to Methos who smiled broadly and set off. "Come on in, Duncan, and have a cup of coffee." 

"Actually, we've just had a big meal at the _Prince's House_ ," he said as he stepped into the house. She turned and stared at him. 

"You do realise...." 

"Yes, first time, I know. Cassandra, I had no idea he was this bad." 

"You should have seen him when we first got back," she said, sitting down on an armchair. "He's much better now." 

"Bloody hell." 

"Yes, I know. You two talked, I gather." 

"Oh yes. You know you could have just come out and said 'Methos is in love with you' instead of all this 'listen with your heart' blather." 

She smiled. "That sort of statement is only made in trashy novels, Duncan. Besides, love isn't the only thing you need to listen for. You'll have noticed he's very nervous. Night times are the worst, just so you know." 

"He said you suggested that he sleep with a teddy bear? Were you serious?" 

"He _did_ sleep with one of Shona's stuffed toys for a few weeks until he replaced it with a pillow. We had to come up with all sorts of ways for him to just function. Same as I did. The last thing you should do is mock him." 

"I have no intention of mocking him, Cassandra. I'm just trying to work it all out. He's even convinced himself that he deserved it." 

She went still. "Perhaps he did," she said quietly. 

"Cassandra! That's an appalling thing to say!" 

She got up and moved away from him. "Duncan, I assure you, there was nothing that Lazlo did that I would have considered too harsh for him at one time." 

"Revenge doesn't make you feel better. Torture doesn't do anyone any good." 

"Don't you think I've worked that out now? I've learned that much from him," she said irritably. We aren't talking about me, we're talking about him, and his attitude. He has to forgive himself. What I think doesn't matter." 

"It matters to him. He has a high regard for you." 

"Yes, I know. I've forgiven him, I've told him that. We are not enemies. He knows that too." 

"I still don't know why this Lazlo tormented him more than you, if Kronos wanted revenge on both of you." 

She turned away and began to rearrange some ornaments on the sideboard. "Lazlo was looking for Kronos' killer." 

"That was me. Why didn't he come for me?" 

"Because Methos said he killed Kronos. To protect you." 

Duncan's gut churned. "And you? What did you say?" 

She wouldn't turn around. He walked over to her and grabbed her arm. "Cassandra, what did you tell Lazlo? How did he even find Methos?" 

She glared at him. "I told him where to find him. I told him that Methos killed Kronos. I had a choice between someone I loved and someone I loathed. Who do you think I chose to save?" 

He dropped her arm in shock. "You? _You_ led Lazlo to Methos?" 

"I told him about 'Adam Pierson'. That's all." 

"And you blamed him for Kronos' death. You're responsible for what happened to him. You're the reason he's like this, a wreck." He grabbed her shoulders. "How can you stand there and claim you've been helping him when you're the one who hurt him in the first place!" 

"You don't understand ...." 

"You're damn right...!" 

They heard a door slam. "Let her go!" Methos shouted, running into the room. "MacLeod, get away from her, now!" 

Startled, Duncan did just that. "Methos...." 

"Mum!" Shona ran over to her mother, and grabbed her by the waist. "What's going on?" 

Still staring at Duncan, Cassandra held her daughter close. "Nothing, darling." 

"MacLeod, get out before I throw you out." Methos growled. 

"Adam...." To Duncan's horror, Methos reached inside his coat and he realised the man was about to draw his sword. 

Cassandra put her hand on his arm. "Adam, no!" 

"Mum!" Shona cried, clinging in fear to her mother. 

"Adam, you're frightening Shona," Cassandra said in a shaking voice. 

Methos moved in front of the two females, so he was between them and Duncan. He reached into his pocket, pulled something out and flung it at Duncan. Keys. "Take them, collect your stuff and get out of my home," he said. "If you're there in an hour, you will face me." 

"Adam, be reasonable!" 

"Get _out_!" Methos yelled and Duncan turned and walked out. The look on his friend's face brooked no argument. 

Outside Jane's house, Duncan stood in the rain, wondering what had just happened. Angry, and worried, he hiked back to the croft and grabbed his belongings. He toyed with the idea of waiting for Methos to return, but the memory of the stony look he had been given as he left deterred him. Methos was beyond angry. Enraged – he was almost in berserker mode. 

He got in the car and drove away from the house, down to the monument, where he parked and stared out at the rain, towards the loch, his thoughts anywhere but on what he was looking at. How had his life just turned to shit in the space of half an hour? Why did Methos think he would harm Cassandra? How the _hell_ had it gone from him protecting Cassandra from Methos to Methos defending Cassandra from _him_? 

Maybe it wasn't meant to be. Methos was badly damaged, and all he, Duncan, had done since he'd arrived just a bare twenty-four hours ago was cause pain. Maybe it was beyond his ability to help. 

But he couldn't accept that. He'd managed to defeat Ahriman. Surely post-traumatic stress was not beyond him? 

He sat for a while, but his anxiety made it impossible to sit and wait as he'd planned, in the hope that he could talk to either Methos or Cassandra once they had calmed down. He started the car up and drove along the winding narrow road to Mallaig, thinking hard, the familiar scenery passing by unnoticed. He sat for a long time, staring out over the sea. No easy solutions came to him. 

By the time he'd driven back to Glenfinnan, it had been dark for hours. He drove to where he could overlook Methos' house. He saw a light, which meant someone was home, and so he risked driving back to Jane MacPherson's cottage. He hesitated – he was still extremely angry with Cassandra and doubtless she with him, and maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all? 

But he couldn't let the night pass without trying to mend this, at least, so he parked and got out. He knocked on the smartly painted front door and waited nervously. The door was opened by a stern-faced, middle-aged woman he didn't know, but guessed was Jane. "I'm sorry it's so late, but I wanted to talk to Cassandra." 

She nodded. "Aye, you must be Duncan. Come in," she said, without smiling. 

Cassandra was hovering near the doorway to the living room. "I was hoping you hadn't left – come inside." 

"The child is asleep, Mr MacLeod. Please remember that," Jane said, before nodding curtly at both of them and going upstairs. 

He sat down, holding himself rigid. On one hand, he was angry with her, on the other, she might be the only person who could help put things right between Methos and him. There was one thing he needed to apologise for, unequivocally. "I'm sorry for frightening your daughter." 

"You should be. She was terrified." 

"I would never have hurt you." 

"And how was she supposed to know that, Duncan? She's never seen anyone behave like that in her own home before. You should be ashamed of yourself." 

"Look, I said I'm sorry. What did you tell her?" 

"I told her that Methos overreacted to something. As did you." 

"What about Methos?" 

She folded her arms around herself. "You really screwed that up, Duncan. I told you, more than once, to listen. He told you, I told you, how much he needed my support. What was that telling you?" 

"That he needed you." 

"If someone had attacked your mother, or any member of your family, what would you have done?" 

"Defend them." God. 

"Duncan, even three thousand years ago, the only thing he cared about enough to defend to the death was his 'family'. Those he loves, he will protect. Those who have protected him, are protected in the same way. Are you so very different?" 

"No," Duncan whispered. "But you put him in harm's way. You were the one...." 

"Who kept herself alive and her daughter safe at the cost of a man she hated the guts of," she snapped. 

Understanding dawned, just a little. "They threatened Shona? I didn't know." 

The first crack in her grim facade appeared. "They knew everything about her, Duncan. Where we lived, where she went to school, even what she liked to wear. I had to give them something, and I had vowed to destroy all the Horsemen. It seemed the best way to achieve all that I needed to." 

"Cassandra, I told you, I wanted him to live!" 

"And I did not raise a hand against him. But they already knew about him. They didn't know about you. He agreed with me on this. We kept you alive and safe," she said bitterly, then covered her mouth with her wrist. 

Duncan went to her and pulled her close. "Oh, Cassandra, I didn't know. I'm sorry, I really am." 

"Don't tell me, tell him. You frightened him, Duncan. You've undone so much good work. I was afraid for him to leave tonight, but he insisted. He's probably drinking himself into a stupor as we speak." 

"Drinking?" 

"When he can't bear it any more, he drinks himself into oblivion. Why, does that bother you? Can't you cope with a semi-alcoholic lover? You would rather he went looking for someone to cut off his head when he is in so much pain he can't stand it?" 

The anger in her voice suddenly made sense. "You feel like this too?" 

"Not often, not now. I have Shona. I have Jane. I have my beliefs. He has nothing, no one. Only his feelings for you, and they are a two edged sword. Why couldn't you just have left things _alone_?" 

"I have to go to him. I can't – I have to go." 

"Yes. Go." she said urgently. "And don't let him kill you." 

"I can look after myself." 

She stared at him. "I don't want either of you to die. And certainly not both of you." 

"I have to go." 

"Duncan," she said, holding his arm. "Call me. However late. Here." She wrote out a number. "My mobile." 

"You have a mobile phone?" 

A ghost of a smile crossed her features. "You need to move with the times, Duncan. Now, remember. Call me. I will be waiting for it." 

* * *

The door of the house was unlocked, worryingly, and no angry Immortal came to see who was intruding on his privacy. The kitchen light was on, but Methos' Presence told Duncan he was in the living room, which was in darkness. He switched on a sidelight. "Go away, MacLeod," a weary voice said. 

Methos was sitting in an armchair, staring out the large picture window, a bottle of scotch in front of him. 

"Methos, we need to talk." 

"Nope." 

"No?" 

"Nope." He reached forward and poured himself another drink, drank it off in a single gulp, put the glass down and resumed his blind staring. At no point did he even glance in Duncan's direction. 

Duncan pulled the other armchair over to be closer to Methos. "Look, I'm sorry. You know I would never hurt Cassandra." 

Now the hazel eyes swivelled his way. "Do I?" Methos said dully. 

"Of course! She's a good friend. I was just angry with her for betraying you." 

"Right." He reached again for his glass, but Duncan put his hand over it. 

"Maybe that's not a good idea," he said gently. 

Methos slumped back. "Whatever you want." 

"It's not what I want, it's what's good for you." 

"You want to help me, MacLeod?" 

"Of course I do. I'll do anything." 

"Then take my head." 

"Methos!" 

"Don't be shy, MacLeod. I assure you you're doing the only thing that can help me." 

"No! Methos, I can't kill you." He reached over and took one of Methos' limp hands. The other immortal didn't resist, but neither did he react. 

"Okay. Yes, of course. Never mind." 

"Never _mind_? Methos, what's wrong with you?" 

Methos tugged his hand and Duncan set it free. "What's right with me? I want to die. If you don't want me inside you, I don't blame you. Never mind. I can find another way." 

"I cannot let you kill yourself," Duncan gritted out. "Not because you're feeling upset." 

"You don't have to watch. You don't have to be here. If you won't take my head, there's nothing else you can do anyway. So go home, Duncan." 

"Why? Why after thousands of years have you decided to give up?" 

"Because I have, that's why. I decline the offer to continue. Now go away and leave me alone." 

"We've only just got together and you want me to let you die?" 

"Is it because we haven't fucked? We aren't done until you get to come at least once?" 

"No, don't be so stupid...." But Methos stood and began to strip off his sweater and shirt. "What are you doing, Methos?" 

"Giving you the only thing I have left." Duncan tried to grab his arms, but Methos shoved him and moved away from him. He kicked off his shoes, shoved his jeans and boxers down and kicked them away too. He stood pale, nude and trembling in the low light. 

Horrified, Duncan cast his eyes about until he saw the blanket on the couch. He grabbed it and slung it around his unresisting friend. "Why are you doing this?" 

"People seem to think having you make love to them is a life changing experience. Maybe I want to try?" 

"Don't, Methos. You're shivering. Put your clothes on." 

"No! See me for what I am, MacLeod. Broken." He twisted, the blanket falling to the floor. "What you waiting for?" Duncan tried to stop him, but he leapt away. "No, MacLeod. You want it? Take it. I won't even feel it. I won't even know you're there." 

"Methos, I don't want to fuck you." 

Methos dropped to his knees and looked up. "My mouth? I'm good at that, MacLeod. Every blowjob I made Cassandra give me, I have given back a hundred times." 

His voice shook so hard he was almost unintelligible, and tears ran in ceaseless streams down his face. His body trembled violently, and his face had lost all colour. Duncan picked up the dropped blanket, knelt down and wrapped Methos in it. "No. I won't. Not because I don't want you, but because I want you too much. You're so beautiful, Methos. I love you so much I could drown you in my desire. But not this way. Not like a whore." 

"That's all I am...." 

"No. No, you're not." He pulled Methos' head onto his shoulder and Methos broke into harsh anguished sobs which rocked them both with their violence. They were kneeling on a thick sheepskin rug, and Duncan eased them down to the floor, keeping Methos tightly wrapped in the protecting blanket, holding him close. "Oh, I want you, Methos, but not the way you think," he murmured. "If I ever had to take your head, it would kill me." 

Methos didn't answer and his sobbing, if anything, was becoming worse. All Duncan could do was stroke and wait and soothe. 

His arm had gone numb long before Methos went quiet, and then Duncan realised he'd actually fallen asleep. The floor was hardly soft enough to spend the night on, and the blanket not warm enough for the autumn. He eased himself out from under Methos, who never stirred, and left him briefly while he scooted upstairs to collect the nasty coloured pyjamas, Methos' pillow and the duvet from the bed. He dumped the bedding, and then struggled to dress his unconscious friend. Duncan didn't want him to wake and find himself exposed. 

Methos didn't wake at all as Duncan manhandled him carefully. Getting him onto the couch was more difficult -Methos was no lightweight – and Duncan grunted as he lifted him in a fireman's carry and dumped him onto the seat. But once there, Methos immediately curled around himself, and Duncan put a cushion between his arms, wishing the sofa wasn't so narrow so he could lie down alongside him. 

Finally, all was arranged. Methos' eyebrows were drawn together in a frown, and as Duncan watched, the low muttering he had heard the night before, began again. What language was it? It sounded very old. And what was he dreaming about? 

Convinced he was safe for the moment, Duncan remembered his promise to Cassandra and went to the kitchen to dial her phone. She answered immediately, and listened in silence to Duncan's brief report. "Cassandra, I think we all need to talk." 

"Yes, I agree. Duncan, don't leave him for a second – this talk of suicide worries me. He's fully cunning enough to manage it." 

"I know. Cassandra...." He stopped. "He needs help." 

"Yes, I know, but who can we ask? We're all he has. It has to be enough." 

"How did you get through it?" 

"Who says I have?" she said, the bitterness audible in her voice. "But it was worse for him, there is no doubt about it. And I think, perhaps, he is more insecure than I am, at heart. I have never questioned who I am, what I am here to do. He does." 

Duncan nodded, even though she wouldn't be able to see it. "Do you think we _can_ help him?" 

"We can only try. Do you plan to stay around?" 

"As long as it takes." 

"Then that is something at least. I'll be there after I take Shona to school, after nine." 

"Sleep well, Cassandra." 

"You too, Highlander." 

Duncan was thoughtful after the call. Insecurity was not a trait he associated with Methos, but then, the man was worse than the Russian enigma. Apparently open and transparent, he resisted attempts to pry into his private thoughts with a fierceness that always surprised Duncan. Even if there was a psychiatrist capable of handling the peculiar problem of a traumatised Immortal, Methos was unlikely to open himself up to a stranger in order to have his psyche fine-tuned. 

But if he was open with anyone, it was with him, Duncan. If anyone could help Methos, it was probably only himself. 

He was reluctant to leave Methos alone all night, even though there was no room on the couch, so all he could do was pull one of the armchairs over alongside the sofa and drape the unneeded blanket over himself. He arranged himself so he could see Methos as soon as he opened his eyes, and the position of the chairs meant Methos was unlikely to be able to get up without him knowing. Somehow, he thought he was unlikely to try. 

For the second night in a row, he slept badly for worrying about Methos, and he was stiff and achy in the morning. The place was cold – the central heating must not have come on yet, and he didn't know where the controls were. He was hungry too – he'd missed supper. Methos was still dead to the world, the cushion clutched tightly to his chest, and he had apparently not moved an inch during the night. Duncan laid a hand on his forehead – it felt normal, but of course it would. Immortals just didn't get sick that way. It didn't mean that what was going on inside the skull was normal or right. 

Methos slept all through Duncan's having a shower, eating breakfast and getting dressed, and it was beginning to worry him nearly as much as the emotional breakdown the previous night. He only hoped that the sleep was healing in some way. But he didn't like the unnatural stillness or the seemingly ineradicable frown on the thin face. 

True to her word, Cassandra turned up shortly after nine, but she looked scarcely better than Methos. "You didn't sleep?" Duncan asked. 

"Not much," she admitted. "Shona had a couple of nightmares." 

"I'm sorry. I'll talk to her and explain." 

"That would help. As would seeing Methos up and happy again. How is he?" 

Duncan motioned her to sit down and poured her some coffee without asking. "He's dead to the world. He's been asleep solidly for twelve hours." 

She frowned. "Odd. Have you tried to wake him?" 

"I wasn't sure if I should." 

"Duncan, I think I'm going to have to use the Voice on him." 

Duncan didn't like that idea at all. "Why?" he asked sharply. "Cassandra, you can't magic him into health." 

"No, but I might be able to magic him into calmness. I underestimated how disturbing he would find your visit, but it's too late to regret that. All I can do now is try and give him a little peace so he can find his own way to dealing with it." 

"But how long will it take before he's well again?" he asked, despairingly. 

She looked at him. "As long as it takes," she said evenly. "After I escaped the Horsemen, it took me many years before I regained equilibrium, and even after thousands of years, memories can take me unawares. This most recent thing has built upon existing damage for both of us. If you want a quick fix, you've come to the wrong person." 

"I can't bear that he is suffering like this. I want him to be the way he was." 

"He won't be, not ever again, Duncan. An experience like this changes a person forever. If you can't stand his suffering, either walk away or take his head. For suffer he will. But he is strong and intelligent. He knows what's happening, even if he can't control it. All these things are in his favour. More than that, I can't say." 

He stared at her unhappily, unwilling to accept that the Methos he had known and loved for so long was somehow gone forever. She touched his face. "Do not grieve, Duncan. The man is still there, but he is changed, that's all. If he comes out of this, he will be stronger for it. The odd crisis here and there will not mean all is lost." 

"Last night was a hell of a crisis," he said. "He wanted me to use him like a prostitute. He spoke of himself as if he was some sort of a toilet." 

"That's how they treated him," she said simply. "There was nothing that pair didn't do to him, and there were things that happened out of my sight which he refused to describe and which I'm sure were even more vile. Once, twice, would be bad enough, but it went on and on. Over and over. And he thought he was sure to die at the end. He had nothing to hold onto." 

"Except you," Duncan said. "You saved him, he said." 

"Possibly that's true. But he saved me too. I will always be grateful for that." 

"Hard to say?" 

"Not at all, Duncan." She stood. "May I see him?" 

She frowned as she looked at the still man lying on the couch, and knelt down. "Our Presence should disturb him," she said, and Duncan realised that was exactly what was wrong. She took the pillow away, and Methos whimpered quietly. She placed her hand squarely in the middle of his chest. "Wake now, Methos. Be calm." 

Duncan heard the harmonics which meant she was using the Voice, and sure enough, Methos' eyes opened. They darted from her to him and around, checking. "What's happened?" he asked, lifting his head to look about. 

"Nothing. Only you. Duncan and I were worried." Her voice was normal now. 

He lowered his head and closed his eyes. "Oh. I'm all right." 

"Are you? Duncan said you put on a hell of a floor show for him last night." 

Methos opened his eyes and looked at Duncan. "I'm sorry, Mac," he whispered. 

Duncan knelt down too, and took his hand. "No, Methos. Nothing to apologise for. But I am worried about you. Do you remember offering me your head?" 

"No," Methos said softly, but Duncan knew he was lying, and so did Cassandra. 

"Methos, you made me a promise," she said. "Remember that? Remember what you said?" 

She looked into his eyes. "Protect you," he whispered. "I promised to protect you." 

"Yes, but how can you do that if you convince Duncan to kill you?" 

"It hurts, Cassandra. I've tried, but it hurts too much." 

She touched his forehead in a gentle gesture Duncan would never have expected to see her extend to her former master. "I know it does. But think of the pain for Shona, for Duncan – for me – if you die. Can you not be a little brave, a little longer?" 

"How long? Every day... all the time...I don't know how any more...." He closed his eyes again, and tears began to seep out from under his lids. 

"I know. But Duncan knows how, let him help you." 

"I love him," he said in a choked whisper, his eyes still shut. "But I can't let him love me." Duncan realised that for the moment, he had been forgotten, and he stayed very still and quiet so not to interrupt the intensely private moment. 

Cassandra stroked Methos' damp cheek. "Yes, you can. He can love you without having sex with you. He can give you strength, if you let him." 

"I want him to hold me, but I hate how I feel. I hate him seeing me." 

She turned her head to Duncan, and he knew then she was fully aware of his presence and the possible effect of Methos' words. Had she hypnotised Methos? Her eyes warned him to silence. "He doesn't hate seeing you, Methos. He wants to see you. All of you." 

Methos moaned softly. "Hates me. Told me 'we're through'." 

Duncan bit back a gasp. Yes, he'd said those words, but long ago. Had nothing he'd said in the last couple of days proved otherwise to Methos? She glanced at him again. 'Quiet', she mouthed. 

"But you're not through, Methos. He loves you. Can't you feel him?" 

"No," Methos said in a half sob. 

Cassandra took Duncan's hand in hers and laid it on Methos' chest. "Can you feel that, Methos?" 

"Yes," he breathed. 

She took Duncan's other hand and placed it on Methos' forehead. "And this?" 

"Yes." 

"Can you feel him?" 

"Yes, I can feel him." 

"He is strong, Methos. He knows you and loves you. You can believe this because it is true. You don't have to be strong. You don't have to be good. You don't have to be brave. You don't have to do anything but be. Tell him, Duncan." 

"Methos," Duncan said with as much feeling as he could put into his voice. "I love you. I will be here no matter what happens, no matter what you do or say. All you have to do is stay with me. Will you do that?" 

"Ye...yes." 

"Will you promise to stay alive? Not to try and hurt yourself?" No response that time, and he moved the hand on Methos' chest a little. "Feel me, Methos. Feel my love for you. Live for me. Will you do that?' 

"Yes," Methos breathed. 

"Will you look at me? Let me see your eyes, Methos." 

Methos opened his eyes. Tears ran freely from them. "Duncan," he said softly, like a prayer. Cassandra moved back silently, and Duncan came closer, lifting Methos up. Methos' arms wrapped around him. "Oh, Duncan, I'm so sorry for last night." 

"No, don't be," Duncan said, his own eyes misting up. "I know it hurts. I know you're in so much pain. But to lose you now...don't do that to me. Anything but that." 

"I promise, I promise," Methos cried quietly. 

Behind him, Duncan heard Cassandra rise to her feet and walk quietly out of the room. He needed to make sure she was all right. "Methos," he said, kissing him. "Someone needs me for a little while." 

"Go to her, Mac. Tell her thank you." 

"Lie down, rest. I'll be back in a few minutes." 

He waited until he was obeyed and then he went to the kitchen, Cassandra had her head cradled on her folded arms. "Cassandra," he said and she lifted her head. He could see she was bone weary and he took her into his arms. "You need to get some sleep. Go on upstairs." 

"I should...." 

"No, sleep first, argue later." Her mouth twitched as if his presumption amused her. "Give me that bloody mobile phone you're so proud of. If the school needs you, they'll use that, right?" 

"Yes. But Duncan...." 

"But Duncan, nothing. I haven't slept in the bed Methos made up for me. Go and lie down. I'll take care of things down here." He kissed her forehead. "And thank you." 

"It's nothing." 

"It's not nothing. Now go." He made 'shooing' movements with his hands and she grinned before turning away to head up to the little bedroom. 

One down, one to go, he thought. When he returned to the living room, Methos was getting dressed. Or trying to. His fingers seemed to be all thumbs, and silently, Duncan took over the task of doing up his buttons. They were yesterday's clothes, but they would do for now. As he had just done to Cassandra, he kissed Methos' forehead gently. "How do you feel?" 

"Like a bloody idiot." 

"You know you're not. If you think I think less of you, you're wrong. I think it's amazing you've come so far, so fast." 

"Amazing isn't really the word for it." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Have you eaten?" 

"Yes. And made coffee, if you want some." 

Methos nodded and followed him out to the kitchen. "She's upstairs?" 

"Yes. Shona had a broken night, and so did she." 

"Oh my god! Shona – Mac, I have to talk to her...." 

Duncan put his hand on Methos chest to prevent him dashing out the door. "She's at school, Methos. And before we go and put our feet in it again, you and me and Cassandra need to talk. And then you and _me_ need to talk about what happened last night." 

Methos' face was a mask of embarrassment. "Mac, I don't know how to explain that...." 

"I'm not interested in explanations, I'm only interested in solutions. I want us to get to the point where I don't make you sick if I see you naked and you can bear to have me touch you that way." 

Methos looked down. "I don't think it will ever happen." 

Duncan tilted his head up. "Yes it will. I don't care if it takes a hundred years, Methos. I'm going to convince you I love you regardless of whether we have sex. But I'm also going to convince you that you can make love with me and enjoy it and that I will enjoy being with you. It's not going to happen overnight. I know that. I accept that. Will you accept that too?" 

"Are you always this bossy?" 

Duncan laughed and hugged him. "Methos, you've known me for four years. Haven't I always been this bossy?" 

"Yes, I guess you have been. God, I love you, Mac. If you will put up with my nonsense, you're a better man than I thought you were." 

"I'm no saint, Methos. I've just been waiting a long time to get into your pants, so a little longer won't kill me." 

Methos laughed, and Duncan kissed him again. He felt a little light-headed, things were shifting so fast, and he really had had so little sleep himself. He yawned despite himself and Methos wagged a finger at him. "Now I'm sending _you_ up to bed, young man." 

He caught the insolent finger and wrapped his hand around it. "Only if you join me." 

"I just got up!" 

"So? I watched you sleep, you can watch me." 

Methos' expression darkened. "You don't trust me. You think I'll kill myself...." 

"No, you silly bugger – I just want you near me. Methos, I've spent over a year missing you. I just like the feel of you next to me." 

Methos' eyes widened and he smiled. "Oh. Oh, okay. Right." Duncan grinned at how bemused Methos was by his declaration. "Can I eat my toast in bed?" 

"It's your bed, just don't drop crumbs on me." 

* * *

It was hardly the stuff of fantasies, lying full clothed with his head on Methos' lap, but it was the most content Duncan had felt in years. He slept for over three hours, and woke to Methos' hand gently stroking his hair. He lifted his head to see Methos smiling down at him. "Feeling better?" Methos asked. 

He stretched. "One of these days, I'd like to try sleeping in a normal position, but yeah. Thanks." 

He sat up, and without prompting, Methos leaned in for a kiss. "I think I've discovered my new most favourite thing," Methos said. 

"Oh yeah? What?" 

"Watching you sleep. You're wonderful to look at." 

Duncan snorted. "I dribble, Methos. So do you." 

"But darling, you dribble so divinely." 

"Moron." But he grinned. "Is Cassandra up yet?" 

"A few minutes ago, and that smell, I think, is her making soup for lunch." 

Duncan took a moment to look at Methos. The sadness behind his eyes was still there, but he looked less harried, less strained. Cassandra's magic had done some good. 

She was reading a newspaper at the table, and she too looked better, Duncan thought. Methos went to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Thank you," he said quietly. 

"You're welcome. I've used up that chicken carcass for soup – won't take long in the pressure cooker." 

"Good, did you use those old carrots?" 

Duncan felt a twinge of jealousy at the easy way the two former enemies had with each other, even though he was still utterly amazed at the transformation in their relationship. 

Methos was talking to her about Shona. "We'd better show her we aren't going to be fighting every time she see us. I'm sorry, Cassandra." 

"You said that last night. I know you are. It's all right, she will come to understand better. But yes, if you and Duncan can behave well around her, that will help." 

He turned to Duncan. "What do you think, Mac? Can we behave?" 

"You? Not on your life." Methos grinned. "Look, you two, I know it's a painful subject, but I'd rather we talked calmly about what happened to you both now than have it keep coming out in arguments and outbursts over the next few weeks. Do either one of you want to tell me?" 

Methos looked at Cassandra. She shrugged. "I can try, Duncan, but it's not important enough to keep causing either of us distress." 

"Why don't you start by telling me why you gave Methos up to Lazlo and...." 

"Dammit, MacLeod!" Methos interrupted. "That's a blatant distortion of the facts!" 

"No, Methos," she said. "You know it's true." 

"But I know why you did it, Cassandra – in your position, I'd have done exactly the same thing. He has no right to condemn you!" 

Duncan intervened. "I'm _not_ condemning you. Either of you. But you've said enough. Methos, you know about it, you accept the reasons. That's enough." 

"He probably would have found me anyway," Methos muttered. "I think he was just jerking her around." 

"No, Methos," she said firmly. "He didn't know about you. I am culpable." 

"I don't _care_ , Cassandra," he said angrily. "I'm not here to judge you. I have no fucking right – not after, not when...." 

She seized his hands. "Be calm, Methos. We're just talking. Duncan – enough. All you need to know is that we were held and tormented. None of the rest matters." 

In that moment, she was the mysterious Witch of Donan Woods, capable of frightening and entrancing him, and he was but a boy of thirteen again. "Yes, okay. I'm sorry." 

She harrumphed and turned to the stove to adjust the pressure cooker. Methos pursed his lips at Duncan and shook his head. "Can I at least ask how you are, Cassandra? If things are as bad for you as they are for Methos?" 

"At times. In the past, certainly." Methos made a small sound and looked away. "Methos, you know the reasons. But what he did was worse even than what you did. At least I have my former experience to draw on, to help us both. Duncan, if you want to help us, then you must be guided by _our_ reactions. Your instincts are good. But they're not enough in every case." 

Duncan reached across and took one hand from each of them. "I won't. I swear. I will let you be my guides." 

She nodded, and smiled at Methos, who smiled solemnly back. "I think the soup is ready," he announced. 

They kept to inconsequential matters over the meal, and Cassandra announced she needed to be getting home. Duncan insisted on giving her a lift the short distance to the house, because he wanted to talk to her on his own. "Cassandra, what can I do to make him relax about being naked, and about the whole sex thing? What helped you?" 

She smiled sadly. "Time, mainly. And love. Both of which you have in abundance. You must let him lead, Duncan. He has a routine. Don't interfere with it. In a way, the hardest thing will be for you to do nothing. He will come to you, I know it. He's aware of the mechanisms he's using and he will find a way out, because he wants to, very much. Besides, no one could be close proximity to you and not find their libido stimulated." 

He actually blushed at that. " _Amor vincit omnia_?" 

"It can go a long way." She kissed his cheek. "I have to go. Take it slowly, gently. He has a lot of love to give you. Once I thought him incapable of it. I was wrong." 

He lifted her hand and kissed it. "We're all capable of love. And being loved. None more than you." 

She shook her head ruefully. "Not recently, Duncan. But it will happen again. For now I am content. Goodbye." 

He watched her go inside the house with a little regret. He remembered making love to her – she was very passionate, sensual, and the idea that she was celibate seemed a bloody shame to him. Still, as she said, it wasn't forever. 

But right now there was someone equally designed for love waiting at home for him, needing him, and that was where he was headed. 

* * *

Duncan took steps to ensure that he had cleared at least a whole year to devote to Methos and nothing else. He put the barge in dry dock (or Joe did, under his instructions), made sure his business interests were sorted out, and shipped over a minimum of clothes and books to Glenfinnan. His cars he had put in storage, and he bought a small second-hand sedan in Fort William which was all he needed for the time being. 

He slipped into Methos' undemanding routine without complaint, and once the natural disruption and stress of his arrival had passed, Methos was able to be much calmer. Duncan avoided the many traps in conversation as best he could – those he could not, he and Methos tried to deal with as intelligently as possible. Little by little Methos was desensitised to the small, unavoidable reminders of his ordeal that everyday existence brought. 

The night times were the hardest, just as Cassandra had warned. Methos accepted Duncan sleeping with him, and for weeks they slept chaste as nuns, wrapped from neck to ankle in identical white pyjamas that Duncan ordered over the Internet. It seemed to Duncan that after just a few days there was a slight relaxation of Methos' normal tense sleeping habit, but not enough to work with, and certainly there was no indication that he was ready to progress with physical matters. 

Duncan was prepared to be patient. His lover was his work, and Duncan applied the same dedication to this task as he had everything else in his long life. 

The deepening autumn and approaching winter curtailed outdoor activities, although they made as much of an attempt to use what decent weather there was to walk and exercise as they could. Methos continued to look after Shona after school – Cassandra moved back to Donan Woods, and only came down to collect her daughter on the weekends, their friend Jane, and occasionally Duncan, giving them a lift to and from the ancient woodland home. He wondered why Cassandra didn't move into the village itself, but it seemed it was more than she was prepared to contemplate. 

Methos spent a lot of his time writing – his journal, he said, although Duncan suspected that there was more to it than that. He hoped it was a healing thing for Methos. When he wasn't doing that, he was being domestic to a degree which surprised Duncan utterly. He liked to walk, as did Duncan. That was when they had the conversations that meant the most to Duncan, and, he suspected, to Methos. It was when they picked over the horror of Ahriman. When Methos had told him all that he could about the Horsemen and that thousand-year horror. And, in snatches and halting words, over several weeks, what had happened to him in the dungeons owned by Ferenc Lazlo. 

Night times weren't for talking. That was when Duncan was Methos' protection. His armour, his security blanket. Methos clutched at him in a tight desperation that pained Duncan but which they never discussed. He knew perfectly well why the dark held such terrors for Methos. He just didn't know what he could do, other than hold his lover, and let himself be held, that would ease the fear. 

Methos needed him close all the time, physically close, and he needed constant reassurance that he had only to reach out and Duncan would be there. Duncan would have liked it more if he hadn't known why Methos wanted to stroke his back as he passed, or touch his hand or his foot as he ate. The physical closeness reminded him of living with Tessa at times, until he recalled the reason for it. Methos was naturally affectionate, he knew that. But he was also afraid. Duncan wanted to help him but just didn't know what he could do, any more than he knew how to stop the bouts of shivering, the shaking hands, the lost, vacant looks, he saw in Methos more often than he cared to. 

Things did change, imperceptibly, so slowly that it was a real effort to remember what it had been like before. Days would go by and Duncan would be startled to recall that he hadn't seen Methos' hands shaking even once. A week later – and their conversations had been free of any of the silences which meant Methos had stumbled over a painful memory. And then there was the night-light.... 

It was the beginning of December, and dark for all but six hours in twenty-four. Duncan, like Methos, preferred candlelight, and they cooked on the wood-powered Aga, so it was only when he'd gone to turn the radio on that he found the power was out, no doubt because of the high winds. Methos had shrugged, and they had got on with their meal, talking quietly and playing chess until ten, when, as had become their habit, they went to bed early. Duncan had put the candle down and gone automatically to plug in the little night-light, and cursed as he remembered it couldn't be used for the moment. "I'll get a hurricane lamp from downstairs," he told Methos, but Methos had put a hand on his arm. 

"No, it'll be okay," he said quietly. He had already changed into the fleecy pyjamas in which he slept. 

"Are you sure?" Duncan studied Methos' face in the flickering light. His voice had been steady, and Duncan could see no trace of distress. 

"Yes. I find that being able to smell you grounds me as much as seeing you." Methos bared his teeth – but it wasn't a smile. "Just don't start switching colognes, okay?" 

Duncan had lain awake for a long time after that, waiting for any sign that Methos was going through a crisis as a result of his decision. But his lover had lain peacefully and secure in his arms all night. 

Not that every night was peaceful. It was usual for Duncan to be woken by Methos talking to himself, occasionally in English, more often not in some other language. Occasionally it was Russian, and the phrases surprised him – repeated commands to 'stop struggling' and 'uncuff him'. Other times he was speaking to, or about Alexa, or about other people. Mostly it was little more than gibberish. At least Methos seemed to be mostly unaware of the nightmares, unless he happened to wake himself, which wasn't often. 

The very worst time was when he did wake up. If Duncan happened to be out of the room, taking a leak, he would return and Methos would be staring, very still, his eyes wide open and empty. It only took a moment for him to recollect where he was and to smile at his lover, but that moment before realisation was all Duncan would ever need to know what horror Methos had trapped in his mind. And then there was the time Duncan's phone went off.... 

It had been Joe, calling about some minor matter to do with his affairs, before he went on vacation to America. Duncan had left the phone in his jacket, the jacket that was slung on the back of the bedroom door. It had rung, Methos had woken – and gasped harshly, just the once, before he bit off the sound and buried his face in his pillow. Cursing, Duncan had leaped up, answered the call rudely, told Joe he'd call back and then gone to kneel beside his shaking bed-mate. He stroked his dark hair. "S'okay, Methos. Open your eyes, look at where you are." 

Slowly, Methos had turned to Duncan, his eyes staring. "Oh, damn. Damn it." 

He rolled over and stared at the ceiling for a moment or two. Then, without a word, he'd got up, pushed past Duncan, got his bathrobe and gone downstairs. He hadn't said anything more about it. Duncan made sure he never left a mobile phone in the bedroom again. 

There was no doubting that Shona was the single most important thing helping Methos regain his sense of self-worth. The love he felt for the young girl, the tireless patience with her efforts and her chatter and childish interests, was something Duncan found deeply affecting to watch. Shona was always a little wary of him, despite the careful explanations by himself, Methos and her mother. He resigned himself to the fact that while Methos was almost as important to her as her mother and her guardian, she tolerated Duncan, but she was never that comfortable with him. 

She came over most weekday afternoons except for Friday, which was the day Duncan took her back to Cassandra. It was an accepted, even pleasant part of the rhythm of their lives, and gave Duncan an insight into Methos' character that he welcomed. If nothing else had done, his gentleness with the child, and her mother's trust in his care of her beloved daughter was incontrovertible proof that the Horsemen were all dead and gone. Methos had killed the last one himself. 

Christmas was approaching, and Duncan was feeling guilty that he was not returning to Paris to be with Joe and Amanda. Methos had urged him to return, but would not contemplate travelling himself, which ruled it out completely for Duncan. It had led to one of their rare brief quarrels, and only Duncan's emphatic insistence that Methos was never going to convince him to leave had won the day. He still found Methos looking at him sadly from time to time and he knew full well what he was thinking. 

They made plans to spend his birthday – the Solstice, something that Cassandra herself wanted to celebrate – and then Christmas, over at Jane's house, but their plans had to be abandoned when Jane, and then Shona, along with about thirty percent of the Scottish population, were laid low by a virulent flu outbreak. Cassandra came to stay in the village to care for her friend and daughter, and Duncan and Methos did what they could, ferrying groceries and medications, doing housework and taking over food during the worst of it. But really, the only thing they could do was wait it out and be grimly thankful they weren't themselves suffering the very nasty bug which had managed to fell even the British Prime Minister and several members of his cabinet. 

They made plans for a rather more intimate Christmas dinner than they had expected. When just before the holidays proper started, the now customary December gales conspired to lash the country into virtual isolation by road, sea and air, they weren't too unhappy they were safe and secure in a warm, well-supplied house with nowhere they needed to be. Cassandra was ensconced with invalids, and was content for them to keep away, so there was no need for guilt on their part about not making a more vigorous attempt to be sociable. 

Now Christmas morning had dawned, and even though there was in reality no particular reason for them to treat this day differently from any other, Duncan felt a small impulse to mark his first Yule as Methos' lover, even if only in name. Once he was sure Methos was awake, he slipped down stairs and prepared the hot chocolate and croissants he'd bought in advance, bringing them up with the vase with a sprig of heather he just _knew_ Methos was going to laugh at. Which he did, but not in any sarcastic way. It was with a rather touching surprise as he looked at the little spray of out of season flowers and the nicely presented tray. "You'd think I was an invalid," he said, only reproving slightly. 

"Hasn't anyone ever treated you nicely before, Methos?" 

"Not recently. Thank you, Mac." 

"You're welcome. Now shove over and let me have some of that chocolate before it gets cold." 

He drank the sweet hot drink, and then lay his head down on Methos' lap, munching a croissant, much to Methos' loudly proclaimed disgust. He didn't care. He liked lying in this position on a warm body in a warm bed, his hair being stroked gently (and probably being filled with croissant flakes in revenge). He missed sex, but he wouldn't have traded this for the world. 

"I haven't got you a gift, you know," Methos' deep voice sounded above him. 

"Yes, you did. This," Duncan said honestly, rubbing his hand on the leg under his face. 

"You're an incurable romantic, Duncan MacLeod." 

Duncan sat up. Methos' eyes were smiling, and for the first time in many, many weeks, clear of any pain. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he said huskily. Methos took his face in his hands and pulled him close, kissing him, at first gently, but then with more passion. Duncan moved until he covered Methos, and their groins pressed hard against each other. 

It wasn't the first time he'd done this – Methos had confessed a while ago that Duncan's weight on him felt good, safe, and he liked it – but to his horror, he felt his erection growing. He tried to shift off the other man, but his shoulders were held in place. "It's okay, Mac. I know this is difficult for you. You don't have to pretend." 

"It's just a hard on, Methos," he said uncomfortably. 

"Yes, I know. But you haven't noticed that you're not the only one." 

Duncan did move then, and stared at Methos' cotton covered crotch. Sure enough, there was the tell-tale bulge that spoke of an arousal both of them had begun to think was impossible. "Must be the lucky heather," Methos whispered. Duncan reached out a careful hand to the amazing sight, and when Methos didn't move to stop him, he laid it over the bump and rubbed a little. Methos squirmed and he stopped. 

"Sorry," but his wrist was caught and brought back into position. 

"No," Methos said quietly. "Kiss me again, Duncan?" 

Willingly, Duncan did so, and he knew he wasn't imagining the hunger in Methos' caress this time. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, hardly daring to speak in case this magical moment disappeared. 

"More of what you're doing, that'd be nice." 

So, take it easy. Take it slow. He tugged at Methos until he lay flat on his back, with Duncan on his side next to him, a position which made it easy to keep up the gentle massage of Methos' erection while also being able to kiss him languidly and carefully. Methos kept up a constant playing with Duncan's hair, running his fingers over and over through the short curls, now just reaching his collar and beginning to become a damn nuisance again. His other hand he curled possessively over Duncan's hip. "You want me to stop, you just say," Duncan whispered. 

Methos nodded, but his eyes were dreamy. No sign of stress. Just a warm, soft relaxation. 

Duncan's own erection was embarrassingly obvious and he pulled away a little from Methos' hip so his lover would not feel pressure in either sense. Methos' cock felt so warm and big through the fluffy cotton, but Duncan was desperate to feel it, to feel hot, smooth skin – to be able to taste it, to hold it. Daringly, he slid a finger under the hem of Methos' pyjama top. Methos instantly stilled. "Sorry." 

"No, don't stop. Put your hand on me," he said quietly, his mouth on Duncan's ear. "On my stomach." 

Needing no more invitation, Duncan slid his hand up under the top, and the feel of the long desired skin was like an electric shock. Methos' skin burned under his hand. He rubbed it in slow circles, amazed at being allowed this freedom. He moved it down and felt the first springiness of Methos' curls – but Methos froze. "Mac," he said, and now it was no longer encouragement but fear. 

"Hush, I'll stop." He moved his hand up again and felt Methos instantly relax again. 

So, not yet. But maybe soon, he thought, sliding his hand out of the shirt and down over the still rigid bulge. He wanted to relieve that hardness for Methos, he wanted to see him come. 

He kept up the playing, the rubbing, and rolled more onto his back. "You want to touch me?" he asked. 

"Where?" 

"Anywhere." 

Methos' lashes fluttered and Duncan feared he had gone too far. But then Methos' tentative hand moved from his hip to his stomach. His own shirt had ridden up and Methos' hand stroked gently across the bared skin, making him shiver. "Cold?" 

"No. Hot. Very hot, Methos," and his lover smiled. He didn't stop what he was doing. 

There seemed little point in concealing his arousal, even if it was kind of funny to be lying there as hard as a rock, massaging another guy's cock, and knowing there was not the slightest chance of coming that morning. Bloody hell, it felt so erotic, that light, gentle touch of Methos' big hand on his skin. Imaging those long fingers wrapped around him – in him, maybe. 

He pushed his top up a little more, and Methos grinned. "Subtle, Mac." 

"I just love what you're doing, how your hand feels." 

Duncan moved his own hand back up to Methos' stomach, a little further up than he'd had it before. He wondered if Methos' nipples were as sensitive as his own. Wondered what it would taste like to suck on them. "Duncan ...we should stop." 

Duncan eased his hand away immediately, and lay still. "Getting too much?" 

Methos' pupils were large and his eyes were open wide. Could be fear, but maybe it was something else. "No," he breathed. "But I'm worried we'll get carried away and I'll freak and ruin everything." 

"You might – don't think it would be the end of the world, though. It's not like I haven't seen you freak before," Duncan said as calmly as he could, with his dick throbbing and wanting the man beside him so much he ached. "Do you like to touch me?" 

"Oh, _God_ , Mac – do you really have to ask?" 

"Yes, I think I do. Do you want to see more of me? Touch more of me?" He held his breath. He was pushing and he knew it. 

So did Methos, but he didn't mind. "Would you...take your top off?" He barely whispered the request, and now he did seem afraid. 

Duncan rolled over to face him. "How about later?" 

Methos stared and then nodded. "Will you touch me too?" 

He put his hand back on Methos' groin, but the earlier erection had all but disappeared. "You like this?" 

"Yes. _Your_ touch is gentle." 

Duncan slid his hand inside Methos' shirt again. "Remember this. My hand, your skin. Remember my taste," and he brought his lips to Methos who nibbled carefully at them before probing with his chocolate flavoured tongue. "Here and now, Methos. That's where we are." 

"Yes. Damn, Mac," he said throatily. "My head says yes, take me. But I get this tight feeling in my chest and then I want to throw up." 

"It doesn't matter, Methos. Even if we only ever do this," and he kissed him again, "I would think it was worth it." 

"Well, I'd like to aim a little higher than that, MacLeod," Methos said tartly, and Duncan laughed. 

"Yes, all right. The _Kama Sutra_ by this time next year, okay? Or whenever. But tonight, I'm taking my top off, and you can have your wicked way with my chest." 

"You know I used to jerk off thinking about your pecs, Mac." 

Duncan groaned. "You're such a sick man, Methos." He rolled over and looked at the clock. "I promised Cassandra we'd drop over with Shona's gifts this morning." 

Methos was already getting up. "I want to check on them anyway – I didn't like the way Jane's chest sounded." 

"She has got a GP, you know." 

"I know. But I know her, and besides Cassandra was worried." 

It seemed to Duncan that Methos rubbed against him even more than usual that morning. If he didn't know better, he'd say he was being flirted with. Actually, he wasn't sure he did know better, not after Methos made him lean over so he could lick some jam from the corner of his mouth. It was like he lived with two Methoses sometimes. One who wanted desperately to be his lover – and the other who wanted only to be the close friend that he had been before Ahriman, before Lazlo. Duncan was greedy. He wanted both. 

They drove to the cottage on utterly deserted roads – the foul weather and the present opening activities of Christmas morning keeping every one indoors. Cassandra greeted them – Duncan thought she looked tired and somewhat frayed, and said so. "It's not the first time I've sat up nursing the sick," she chided. 

Methos put his hand on her shoulder. "You are going to have a shower and go back to bed. If I'd known they were this bad, I'd have insisted on staying over. Duncan and I will watch them for a few hours." 

She stared at him and grinned. "Yes, master. I obey your command." 

If she'd turned green and sprouted wings, Duncan couldn't have been more shocked. Cassandra – joking about being a slave – with _Methos_? They were looking at him quizzically. "Uh...I'll go put the kettle on," he said for want of anything better to say. 

He could hear them climbing the stairs, talking quietly. He wished Joe was here to see it, because he wasn't sure he hadn't just hallucinated the whole thing. Hallucinating was hard to do around Joe. Even Ahriman had preferred to pick them off while they were on their own. 

No one came into the kitchen for a long time – he made tea, for something to do, and checked out the fridge. They seemed well supplied with the essentials for invalid care, although there was nothing festive that he could see. He would have to make it up to them with a Hogmanay dinner – or Burns Night, if they hadn't recovered by then. 

They were Methos' family, he thought wonderingly. His male lover, his former slave, her adopted daughter, and a spinster schoolteacher. Living peaceful, productive lives alongside one of history's most infamous killers. Yes, he thought Joe would really appreciate the irony of all of this. He missed him. Maybe he would be able to persuade Methos to go to Paris for a short break and see him again. Later, when Methos was less skittish. 

"Mac," his lover called. "Would you bring some glasses and the lemonade from the fridge?" 

"Coming," he said. He got the requested items on a tray and carried them upstairs. Methos was in Shona's bedroom, and took a glass and the bottle off him. 

"Just going in with Jane – amuse this young lady for me, will you?" he ordered as he stepped out. 

Shona looked pale and translucent, in the way that only sick children can. But she was smiling. "Adam gave me a weasel," she announced. "A real weasel, like the gas used." 

"An easel like Degas'?" Duncan translated easily, since he'd carried the thing indoors. 

She nodded. "An' a _biiig_ drawing pad. _Huge_. Look." She pointed at the indeed enormous pad of sketch paper Methos had ordered. "An' these." She thrust a box of Windsor and Newton's finest pastels at him. 

"That was nice of him." 

"Did you get a Christmas present, Duncan?" she asked. It was the most friendly she'd been since the quarrel she'd witnessed. 

He smiled. "Oh yes. How do you feel?" 

She pouted. "Horrible. Mum says I have to stay in bed _all_ the time. I want to go and visit Adam again." 

"Soon, sweetheart. The weather's terrible outside, you're better off in here." 

"Boring," she pronounced. "So, did Father Christmas bring Adam any presents? Do you have a tree?" 

"We'll have to look for his presents later. And no, we don't have a tree because it's more fun to come and look at yours." 

She sagged back against the pillows. "It's going to be _dead_ before I get a chance to see it." 

"Maybe, maybe not," Duncan equivocated, thinking of a plan. 

Methos came in. "She's better, but just wants to sleep. What about you, munchkin?" 

"Don't call me that, I hate that name," she complained. "I want to get up, Adam." 

Cassandra, who had just appeared at the door wearing a dressing gown, and looking damp, turned her down. "No, Shona. I'm going to get some sleep, and you're not to bother Adam and Duncan." 

"Actually," Duncan suggested diffidently,"I was thinking we could carry her downstairs, amuse her for a couple of hours and put her back to bed. You'll sleep better for not being disturbed." 

"Please, Mum. It's Christmas and I don't want to be in bed. Please?" 

Cassandra sighed even as Methos grinned. "Oh, all right. But you do what Adam says, and Duncan too, and if Adam says back to bed, you do that and no arguing with him, all right?" 

"Yay! Thanks, Mum." 

"Thank you, Cassandra," Duncan said. "Can I get you anything before you go to sleep?" 

"No, thanks, Duncan. Just make sure I'm not disturbed, and listen out for Jane's bell. I'll see you both later." 

She disappeared back into the hall. Methos turned to her daughter. "Right, miss. You can choose _one_ book and _one_ game, and that does not include 'The Game of Life', okay?" 

She wrinkled her nose. "That's boring, I hate that one. I want the 'Blue Peter' game and 'Matilda'." 

Methos bowed deeply. "Oh, Duncan-san, would you carry Shona-sama downstairs while this unworthy being brings her chattels along?" 

She giggled at his silly talk, but then coughed rather alarmingly. "Take it easy," Duncan cautioned. He wrapped her up in her duvet, put her pillow on her stomach and carried her easily down the narrow stairs. 

He put her on the couch at first, but she complained, saying the recliner was more comfortable, and closer to the heater, so he got her settled there instead. Methos fussed, feeling her forehead and insisting she took some CalPol for the headache. She endured it without too much complaint, being mainly interested in seeing the tree that her mother, despite her tiredness, had erected. "Put the lights on," she commanded, and Duncan obeyed. 

The tree and the lights lent a soft glow to the dark, warm room, and it felt cosy here, with the wind lashing everything in sight outside. Duncan fetched the teapot, topped it up and brought teacups in for three. Shona sipped thirstily at hers. "I'm _sick_ of lemonade," she announced. 

"I can understand that, but it's the easiest way to keep your energy up," Methos said reasonably. "What do you want to do first?" 

"Play a game? I might be too tired later," she said perspicaciously. 

Duncan had never seen Britain's longest running children's show, and was thus at a complete loss as to what on earth the other two were talking about. He also found the whole concept of the game rather silly. Wild horses would not have dragged that admission out of him as he watched Methos giggling along with Shona as they gleefully outwitted each other. His role quickly became that of a referee, to keep the noise down. Kids, he thought ruefully. 

He also kept them supplied with tea, and toast for her and biscuits for the two adults. Adult and demi-adult, he revised. He didn't mind the childishness of the pastime. Shona wanted to know what his Christmas gift was? Seeing Methos so carefree for a while, smiling and being utterly silly. If the child had not been there, he would have kissed his lover until he couldn't see straight. Not, he thought ruefully, the most responsible behaviour in a baby sitter. 

The morning passed in this harmless fashion. Methos and Shona had abandoned the game to Duncan's relief, and Methos had started to read to her, only to be sidetracked into an intense argument about the merits of Roald Dahl and Judy Blume. The old man certainly knew his children's books, Duncan thought. With no sign of either adult woman emerging, and not a peep out of Jane, he thought he should make the three of them lunch. He found a vegetable broth on the stove, clearly kept for the invalids or a quick meal, and brought it to the boil while he made sandwiches. Not the most exciting Christmas meal, but he and Methos would have their own private celebration later on. 

_Things have gone quiet_ , he thought, as he made up a tray, and sure enough, Shona had fallen asleep. Methos was quietly reading her book, one hand on her arm. He looked up, put his finger to his lips, and stood up, indicating to Duncan that they should move to the little table. "We should take her up to bed," Duncan said. 

Methos shook his head. "She's spent a week up there – a change is good for her. She's comfortable and warm and in good hands. Besides, she'll only whinge at me." 

"She's got you wrapped around her little finger, you know that," Duncan said, holding Methos' matching digit and kissing the tip of it. 

"She's not the only one," Methos whispered. Duncan felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the space heater. 

With their sleeping audience, they could do little other than sit on the couch, holding hands and cuddling discreetly, talking in very low voices about Shona and about inconsequential things. It reminded Duncan a little of when he was courting Tessa. He wondered if Methos had done this with Alexa, spent time just soaking up the other person's presence. Perhaps they had not wanted to waste the time. He didn't want to ask and dampen Methos' strangely good mood. 

They broke apart and were sitting chastely apart like responsible babysitters on the sofa when Cassandra came, but that didn't stop her grinning in a somewhat knowing manner. Shona was still fast asleep – had been for a couple of hours, and didn't look like she was going to wake soon. Her mother looked a lot better. She whispered to them that they might as well take the little girl upstairs. Methos carried her up. Duncan tidied up and waited with Cassandra downstairs. He caressed her face, noting that she looked less worn. "Not much of a Christmas," he said. 

She smiled. "I'm with those I love, what more could I want, Duncan? Besides, it's hardly my first Yuletide. Or yours." 

"That doesn't matter. Will you come to us when they're better?" 

"I suspect Shona won't give us a lot of choice. Thanks for looking after her." 

He lifted her hand and kissed it. "A pleasure. For both of us." 

Methos returned. "She's well on the mend. Keep an eye on Jane's chest, though." 

"I don't need you to tell me that," she said calmly, healer to doctor. "But I'll call if she gets worse." 

"Please do. We should go." 

"Do you have to?" she asked, frowning. 

Methos looked shifty, and for the life of him, Duncan couldn't work out why. "Um, well, we're planning dinner...." 

"Methos, there's nothing that can't keep," Duncan protested. 

"Mac, aren't you forgetting? We need to, uh...." 

Duncan suddenly picked up on Methos' need to get home, even though he didn't know why. "Uh, yeah. You're right, I did forget. Sorry, Cassandra – I'm, uh, planning a special recipe." 

"Oh, all right. Perhaps if it works out, you can let me have it." 

He got the uneasy feeling she could see right through him. She certainly didn't seem put out at their desertion. Her smirk told him that she understood better than he did himself. 

They made as graceful an exit as they could, given that Methos was unaccountably anxious to leave. He said nothing as they drove back to the house, but as soon as Duncan was through the front door, it was slammed behind him and he was pinned to the wall, being kissed within an inch of his life. His hands had a will of their own, and he had to fight the urge to tear Methos' clothes off him. Methos' own hands were everywhere, on his butt, under his shirt. Then he pulled away, breathless, his lips swollen and hair all mussed. 

"Well, that was nice," Duncan said, panting a little himself. "What's brought this on?" 

He kept a hold of Methos' waist, and Methos made no move to pull away. "I just...wanted you. Sorry." 

Duncan laughed and pulled him close. "Don't be daft, Methos." He kissed him again, slowly, savouring those clever lips. "I love you." 

"Yeah, me too. So, uh, what's that special recipe you're planning?" 

Methos' lashes lowered, the very picture of demureness and all completely fake, Duncan knew. "You're such a flirt, Methos." 

"Am I?" He sounded slightly alarmed. "Mac, I'm not trying to lead you on. I really want you – I just don't know when...we...I...." 

"No hurry, Methos. We've got all the time in the world," Duncan said softly. "Do you want to go back to bed? Is that what you want?" 

Methos stiffened. "No." 

"Couch?" 

He relaxed. "Yes." 

"Okay. Why don't I set the fire going, you go get that brandy we've been saving." 

The fireplace in the living room had been little used that autumn and winter, since they both liked the cosiness of the kitchen with the ever-warm Aga going, but it was an impressive specimen. A little too big, truth be known, for the room. Even though it hadn't been used much, Duncan had ensured there was both wood and coal well-stocked, and a fire laid ready at all times. All that it needed was for him to light the paper, and sit back. In moments the paper had caught, and in a minute or two after that, the kindling began to crackle, and the first warmth began to emanate from it. 

Methos knelt down beside him on the rug, and handed him a brandy snifter. Duncan put his arm around his waist, and pulled him close. Methos snuggled willingly against him, his head on Duncan's shoulder. 

The room was getting dark – it was only three o'clock but the sun would be down in half an hour – and the fire was the brightest point in the room. Duncan felt so at peace, he could hardly credit it. His friends were safe, his love was in his arms and getting better every day. He had all he could wish for from life. 

The brandy was very old, very fine, multilayered in its taste and colours – a little like Methos, he thought, smiling to himself. He took a sip of the drink, turned and offered his mouth to Methos. He felt the little startle of surprise as he realised Duncan was passing him some of the brandy, but then he accepted it, his tongue searching Duncan's mouth for any dribble that might have escaped. That became a full-throated kiss, and the brandy glasses were laid aside so their hands could be devoted to clutching and stroking, and their mouths given over entirely to sensuous caresses. 

"Why don't you take off your shirt now, Mac?" Methos murmured. 

Duncan sat back on his heels. All he could see in Methos' face was lust, and a little shy anticipation. He was ready, Duncan decided. Slowly he removed his sweater. Methos took it gravely, folded it, and put it on the chair behind him. Duncan started to undo his shirt buttons, but Methos placed his hand over Duncan's. "Let me?" 

Duncan nodded, and kept his hands at his sides while Methos slowly unbuttoned his shirt from the top. As the hollow of his neck was exposed, Methos bent and kissed it, teasing it with his tongue. Duncan curled his fists, trying to keep control of himself. Dragging his lover to the floor and fucking the stuffing out of him was not likely to engender trust between them, he suspected. 

At last the shirt was open, and tugged out of his jeans. Methos slid his hands under the shoulder of it, slipping it down Duncan's arms. Duncan freed himself of it, and tossed it over to the chair. All that remained was his white undershirt. Methos traced a finger around the neck and arm holes, as if he'd never seen such an object before. "You could model these for a living," he said softly. 

"More money in nude modelling, so I hear," Duncan said, slightly cheekily. 

Methos touched his cheek and grinned. "For you? They'd pay a fortune. Can you?" He indicated the undershirt. 

Duncan stripped it off quickly and it went the same way as his shirt. Now he was as bare as he'd ever been before Methos since he'd arrived in Glenfinnan, and he waited for his lover's reaction. 

Methos' eyes were wide, but his expression was thoughtful. "I want to touch," he said huskily. 

"Touch away, Methos. I won't break." 

Methos placed his palms over Duncan's pectorals, covering his nipples, and he closed his eyes as if it was a mystical experience for him. "Your skin is so smooth. Wasn't expecting that," he murmured. He rubbed his hands lightly over the skin, just skimming the nipples, which peaked immediately. "Sensitive?" 

"Oh yeah," Duncan affirmed with feeling. 

"I wish you still had long hair. I want to see it over your shoulders." 

"It'll grow again." 

Methos took his face in his hands. "I wish you had never needed to cut it," he said quietly, before leaning in to kiss Duncan gently. "I wish...you had not had that grief." 

"It's in the past," Duncan said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I want to think about you. Here and now. I want your hands on me. Touch me again, Methos." 

Methos took each nipple between two fingers and rolled them. Duncan arched a little – he couldn't help it, they really were sensitive – and then he gasped quietly as Methos bent his head and began to suckle on the right one. Duncan put his hand carefully behind Methos' head, exerting self-control in not crushing him close. But God! Methos was driving him mad, teasing him with his teeth, rubbing his tongue back and forth over the nub. Duncan felt his cock straining against his jeans, but he dared not indicate how aroused he was. He wanted to do nothing which would break the mood. 

Finally Methos raised his head, his lips kiss-swollen, and his eyes dazed-looking. Duncan pulled him close so he could kiss him, lingeringly and deeply. "Methos," he whispered. "I want to do something for you." Methos stiffened, and Duncan stroked his cheek soothingly. "You don't have to get undressed. Let me?" 

Methos nodded, his eyes never leaving Duncan's face. The fire was well alight now, and it was almost uncomfortably hot against his bare skin. He wrapped his arm around Methos' shoulders and lowered him gently to the rug, urging him to lie down. For a minute or two, he just lay over Methos, stroking his face and kissing him, until he felt him relax. There was no sign that Methos was aroused now, although Duncan knew he had been a few minutes before. Still, that wasn't necessarily discouraging. 

He moved his hand over Methos' crotch and began to massage firmly, at the same time keeping up a steady, gentle rhythm in caressing Methos' face. "You know I would never hurt you," he said softly. "All I want to do is make you feel good." Methos' eyes were closed tight. "Methos, do you want me to stop?" 

"No," came the whispered answer. "But I might change my mind." 

"That's okay. If you say 'stop' I'll stop, no arguments. I'm going to open your jeans now." 

Methos nodded, his eyes still closed. If that helped, Duncan wasn't going to argue with him over it. 

He undid Methos' belt, and the button, rubbing his stomach soothingly before he lowered the zip. He felt Methos tense right up, so he stopped, massaging his hips. As soon as the long body relaxed, he finished opening his jeans. Thank God Methos wore boxers with a generous fly. But he was still limp. 

Duncan lay down so his head was on Methos' hip, so he could play with his cotton- covered genitals, rubbing and massaging them. He felt Methos' hand come and rest on his hair, beginning to scratch his scalp tentatively. This was good. They could lie like this for a long time. The rug was thick and comfortable and the room was cosy with the fire throwing warm light and shadow across it. 

"This is nice," he heard Methos say. "Mac...um, are you going to...?" 

"You're okay?" 

"It's not like I'm a virgin, Duncan," Methos said severely. Duncan lifted his head and met a glare – and then a grin. "God, this is so silly, don't you think? I _know_ you aren't them. Just...do it. Don't mind me." 

Duncan rolled over so he could see him properly. "It's not important enough to get you worked up about. Would it be easier if you, uh...released it?" 

"Set the wilde beaste free?" 

"Go for it, tiger," Duncan smirked, and rolled back so he could look. Methos fumbled at his fly and pulled his cock out. "It looks pretty tame to me." 

"Everyone's a critic," Methos growled, and then he put his hands behind his head. "Over to you." 

Duncan got comfortable again, but didn't put his mouth on Methos' shy, limp sex. Instead, he ran a finger lightly over it, and was gratified to see it pulse in response. So he did it again. 

It was beautiful, even to Duncan who had seen more than one or two cocks in his time. Unmarred, of course, and uncut. The skin of his own cock was not something he'd paid a lot of attention to, but Methos' was the softest thing he'd ever felt. And as it grew slowly, Duncan admired its graceful length, the slight curve. He wanted to know how it tasted – and he realised there was nothing to stop him now. He took the tip into his mouth and Methos shifted. Duncan put a restraining hand on his thigh and Methos stilled. His cock unfurled a little more. 

Duncan would have liked to have played with Methos' balls, even his arse, but that was too much to expect. Besides, from what he could see and feel and taste, Methos was responding deliciously. No sign of fear, no sign of wanting to stop Duncan's attentions. If the hands in his hair were any indication, the words in Methos' head were 'go for it', not 'stop'. 

"Mac," he heard Methos whisper. 

He looked up, freeing Methos' cock. "Are you all right?" 

"I'm going to...." 

Duncan laughed. "Silly bugger," he said and went for it. Seconds later, the bitter taste pulsed across his tongue and he swallowed it all in delight. He'd got what he wanted. 

He kissed the softening cock one more time, tucked it back into the boxers, zipped everything up tidily, and then slid up Methos' body. His face was seized immediately and he was drawn in for a scorching kiss. ""Oh, God, Mac...oh, God," Methos said, in wonder. "You...that.... God." 

"I think I get the picture," Duncan said smugly. His own erection was pushing against his zipper, but he could ignore it, because he was lost in the delight in Methos' eyes. "You're damn beautiful, you know." 

"Mac...you can't say things like that to a guy." 

"Don't care. You are. You feel good?" 

"I feel wonderful. You?" Methos reached down to the plain evidence of Duncan's arousal. 

"It's all right, I don't need...." He couldn't ask Methos to touch him the way he'd touched Methos. He knew enough of what had been done to him. 

"I think my right hand can manage." 

Duncan was unconvinced by the flat tones. "Methos," Duncan captured his face. "Not now. Just enjoy feeling good." He kissed him, and Methos closed his eyes. "I just want to hold you. Will you let me?" 

"Yes, of course. Damn, I'm fucked up." 

"You were fucked up thousands of years ago," Duncan assured him grinning. 

"Bastard." 

"Hmmm." He sat up a little so his back was supported by the sofa, with Methos resting on his chest. He picked up their neglected drinks and passed Methos' glass to him. Methos' sweater was a little scratchy against his bare skin, but his face felt smooth and very, very good. Methos put his hand flat on Duncan's stomach and began rub it in small circles. 

"It was after the Horsemen, you know," he said quietly. 

"What was?" Duncan asked, trying to keep his voice calm. It was hard not to tense up when this subject was raised. 

"I found I couldn't come with someone I didn't like. Funny really – I spent a thousand years fucking anything, willing or unwilling, I could, but after Cassandra, I lost the taste for non-mutual sex completely. Watching – feeling – those two... raping me, raping her...it was like watching myself. I don't know which was worse – the pain of what they were doing, or the pain of seeing what I had been." 

"Are you afraid you could be that way again?" Duncan could feel small tremors rippling through Methos and wished his lover had not brought this up. But he had learned that Methos needed to say stuff when he found the words, and so he didn't hush him. 

"N ...no. I don't think I could. I hope not. But you know as well as I do the capacity lies in all of us." Duncan winced at the veiled reference to his own experiences of non- consensual sex during the Dark Quickening. That woman's face rose many a time to haunt him. "It's being forced to confront how my victims must have felt. To know I brought the pain I'm feeling to so many others. Feeling guilty that I have you to help me, and they had no one." 

"I thought you didn't feel guilt." 

Methos twisted up so Duncan could see his pain-filled eyes. "I lied." 

"All you can do, Methos, is heal, and help others heal. What you have done with Cassandra is a mighty thing. A good thing. The woman she is now, so at peace with herself...when I remember how she was last year, how much in pain and with so much hate... let her stand for all the others. To save even one of them, makes up for a lot." 

"So she tells me. But to live with what I have done...." 

Duncan laid his hand on Methos' face and made him look at him. "Aye. What we have all done. Me as well as you. To forget is a crime. To forgive, to understand, is not. You taught me that. You taught me life is about change, and forgiveness, and the chance for redemption. Learn your own lesson, old man." 

Methos closed his eyes and lowered his head again, so Duncan could not see his expression. He hoped his words had some impact. Time alone would tell 

They stayed in the living room the rest of the evening, apart from Duncan going out to the kitchen to put the duckling on to roast. He picked up the brandy and the chessboard, and they sat in front of the fireplace, talking and playing the ancient game, until it was time to eat. It was just a little too cold to stay semi-naked, but Duncan cherished the little pout Methos made when he put his shirt and sweater back on, just as he loved the kisses he got every time he got close enough to his lover. 

They ate the roast duckling and rice like barbarians, with their fingers, and Methos fed him dates and walnuts from his own hand, like a potentate with his favourite. "Shona wanted to know what your present was," Duncan said, kissing a finger that drifted too close to his mouth. 

Methos laughed. "I'll tell her you ate it already." Duncan blushed a little at the idea of saying such a thing to a little girl. "Oh, don't worry, Mac, I'll make something up." 

"She liked her weasel." 

"Her what? Oh, easel. She can't get that word straight," he smiled. 

It was one of the most pleasant Christmas days Duncan could remember, sitting in a slightly blurry alcoholic haze, his lover plastered to him, the fire warm and pleasing in an atavistic way that storage heaters could not manage. They sat like that until nearly midnight, when Methos sighed. "I suppose we should go to bed." 

Duncan was going to protest that he was too comfortable to move, but the fire had died down, and it wasn't worth it to build it up again. "Only if I can take my shirt off again," he said, licking behind Methos' ear. 

"I was counting on it, Mac," Methos said quietly. 

For the first night since he'd got there, Methos slept without clutching at him, and his body was completely relaxed. Nor was there any muttering, or any sign of a nightmare. The healing power of a blow job, Duncan thought, smiling to himself. 

He woke to find Methos' hand roving absently over his chest. He lay very still not to give away that he was awake, in case Methos stopped, because he loved the feeling of Methos' fingers teasing his nipples, playing a little with his chest hair, but he nearly gave the game away as his hand drifted lower. Down, over the fly of his pyjamas. "Mac?" Methos asked softly. 

Curses. "Yeah?" 

"Do you mind?" 

"Are you nuts?" 

He heard a chuckle. "I think the jury's still out on that, actually." Methos fumbled the buttons on the fly open, and Duncan's cock pushed out, only to be taken in a warm, strong grip. He couldn't restrain himself from thrusting into Methos' hand a little. 

"You want to do this?" Duncan asked quietly. 

"Shut up, MacLeod." 

Duncan decided from the impatient tone that Methos probably did want this, so he relaxed. Oh, God. It had been nearly two years since...he hadn't even jerked off more than a few times, for one reason or another, and besides, there was something unbearably erotic about the touch of someone else's hand. That it was _Methos'_ hand made that eroticism increase ten fold. 

He was far too good at this, Duncan decided, unable to hold back little "oh's" and "ah's" of pleasure as Methos stroked, his thumb teasing the crown, then his hand sweeping up from the base. He seemed to know exactly how Duncan liked it – maybe it was the same for all guys? Duncan didn't know – a hand job was not something he'd ever given another man. For some reason he'd always thought of it as a poor second, but Methos was proving him wrong...uh... fuck.... "Methos!" he shouted as he came, Methos still stroking the last spurt of climax from him. 

He felt utterly boneless, the orgasm more powerful than most because of its unexpectedness. Methos wiped his hand messily on the outside of Duncan's pants, did the fly back up and then rested his hand back on Duncan's stomach. Duncan rolled over. "Damn, Methos. Thanks." He kissed his lover. "You okay?" 

"No." Duncan searched for the fear but only saw a smile. "I wanted to see your face as you came." 

Duncan laughed. "Next time. That was great." 

"It felt good from here too. Um. Mac?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Take your pants off?" 

He nearly asked if Methos was sure, but he was increasingly aware that Methos had finally breached the barrier of his fear enough to deal with Duncan's nudity, if not his own. "Just promise to keep me warm, okay." 

Methos smiled, and crossed his heart. "I swear. Oh. Mac." Duncan had shimmied out of his pyjama pants and was now lying naked for Methos' avid scrutiny. "I had _no_ idea." He reached a tentative hand out to the manhood he'd just been working with such skill. "I should keep you naked." 

"Up here? Dream on, man." 

"Oh, I will, I will. Good God, MacLeod, you're too beautiful to live." 

Duncan snorted with disgust, but he was pleased that Methos' admiration had carried him right past his nervousness. "Yeah, you aren't the only person to say it. At least you don't mean it literally." 

"You mean, like Kristin." 

"She wasn't the only jealous lover I've had. You're not the possessive type, I hope." 

"Sorry, Mac. Having seen what's under the kilt, you're out of your mind if you think anyone else is going to lay a hand on it." 

Duncan rolled over and pinned Methos down. "Including me? No more masturbation?" 

"Nope. You have to come to me if you, uh, want to come." 

"Think a lot of yourself, don't you?" 

Methos went serious. "If I do, it's because of what you've given me, Duncan." He pulled Duncan's head down to kiss him. "You, uh, know it might be a while before...we can do more." 

"I know," Duncan said softly. "But even this much is more than either of us thought we'd have a week ago. It'll take time. I've got time. And even if things regress a little, we both know that's temporary, right?" 

"Right." Methos grinned. "You're going to freeze your assets off lying about like that, you know." 

Duncan growled, kissed his cheeky partner and rolled off to find his bathrobe. Time for the new day to begin. 

* * *

He found he was walking around with an idiot grin most of that week, and Methos smiled more than usual. They made love only once more, but it was sweet and relaxed and gave Duncan hope that it would not be long before they could be more adventurous. Cassandra seemed to know about the breakthrough without either of them saying a word, and she gave Duncan a warm hug, a smile and a quiet 'good work' when they had the three of them over for a Hogmanay meal. Shona and Jane were recovered – just – and although they relished the meal Duncan made for them, they were drooping not long after they finished eating, so he ran them home and made sure all was secure before returning to Methos. 

Methos was washing up when he got back. He dried his hands and kissed Duncan. "So, Happy New Year." 

"Aye. I've got a good feeling about it," he said, crushing Methos to him. To his pleased surprise, Methos ground his groin against him, a clear indication that more than kissing was on his mind. "Are you trying to tell me something?" 

"Yes. Mac, I want to do more. Tonight." 

"Whatever you want," Duncan said, his voice catching in his throat. "Where?" he whispered. 

"Here. Living room." 

A tiny voice told Duncan he should be cautious, but fuck it, he was tired of waiting. Methos sounded so sure of himself, and he had been so stress free lately, so affectionate and playful. "Okay – why don't you light the fire?" 

Methos kissed him and slipped out into the room next door. Duncan's hands were sweating. Oh, God. He hadn't been this nervous about sex in four hundred years. And he didn't want to think about what would happen if it didn't go well for Methos. 

He went to the bathroom and searched frantically for what he could use as lubricant – the only thing he could see was some thick hand cream he used against chapping and rough skin for when he worked out. He sniffed it – it was unperfumed and he supposed it was okay. 

Methos was kneeling in front of the fire. Naked. Duncan stopped dead. "Uh...." 

Methos turned to him. "Had to happen sometime." 

"Uh...." 

"Are you just going to stand there?" 

"No," Duncan managed to say, walking over and kneeling down beside him. Methos' fine skin and long back glowed in the growing firelight, and his eyes were bright and welcoming. Duncan kissed his cheek. "Are you sure?" 

"Yes, I'm sure." Methos sounded calm, in control. He reached his hand up and tangled it in Duncan's hair, bringing him closer for another, longer kiss. "Why don't you get undressed?" he whispered into Duncan's ear before setting him free. 

With hands that had begun to shake a little, Duncan undid his pants and stepped out them, stripped off his sweater and shirt. He knew Methos needed to be in control, so Duncan was prepared to let him direct this. "What...what do you want to do?" Damn, his voice sounded weedy. 

Methos put his hand on Duncan's shoulder. "Would you let me take you?" 

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "Anything." 

Slowly, Methos stroked his face and then caught it between his hands so he could kiss him. He laid a hand on Duncan's chest. "You're nervous. You're trembling." 

"No." 

"Mac, it'll be okay. I'm just tired of being afraid." 

"I know. Just do it, Methos. I want you so much." 

"And I want you, Duncan. It's going to be fine. You'll see. " 

"I know." He rubbed his hands up and down Methos' back. "Amanda said you had a nice body." 

" _Amanda_?" Methos said incredulously. "When the hell did she see it?" 

"When she came over to your apartment one night?" Methos clearly remembered and winced. "She made sure I knew about it." 

"Bloody bitch. To think I considered her a friend." 

Duncan laughed. "Obviously she does, or she wouldn't have said anything to me. She's just a tease." He looked down and saw Methos was erect. He laid a hand on his cock. "Do you want to put that to good use?" 

Methos kissed him again. "Lie down," he said quietly. 

Duncan stretched himself out on the rug. He knew his own cock was limp – he was too nervous to be aroused just yet. 

"Why don't you roll over?" 

His heart thudding, Duncan obeyed. He shuddered at the first touch of Methos' fingers on his backside. "It's been a while?" Methos asked quietly. 

"Yeah. But I like it. Took me a while to get used to it." 

"Religious prejudices?" 

"No, clumsy lovers. It just hurt the first few times. Not a problem with you, I bet." 

He looked back over his shoulder at Methos who looked back at him solemnly. "I won't hurt you," he promised. 

The reversal of their roles struck Duncan as ironic. "I know you won't. Now, if I remember how this goes, you need to, uh, use that cream." 

"Pushy, pushy." Methos grinned, and then Duncan felt the first cool touch of the hand cream against himself. 

He spread his legs a little. He groaned with pleasure as Methos slipped a finger inside him, and unerringly found his prostate. "Oh, Jesus!" 

"Please, pray or let me fuck you," Methos said severely. "Don't do both, it's distracting." 

Duncan laughed and then moaned – two fingers, both curling around the magical little gland. He could hear Methos slicking himself, and he felt a quiver of anticipation. He felt the bluntness of Methos' cock against him, and then it slipped in past the ring of muscle. They both sighed. 

"Damn, Mac – so bloody tight," Methos moaned. 

"You're big," Duncan gasped. It was always a shock to feel how huge a man's sex felt inside, always so good. 

Methos urged him to get up on his hands and knees and then began to thrust in earnest. Duncan started to lose himself in the intense sensations, rejoicing in the freedom of being fucked, of not having to worry about Methos' reactions. 

Methos thrust hard, in long, powerful moves against him that almost threw him flat. Dimly, through the haze of lust, Duncan began to realise that Methos was being rougher than he would have expected. In fact, he was being very rough – brutal – and the pleasure was beginning to turn to...pain.... 

"Methos!" Duncan gasped, as he felt something tear. "Stop!" 

Methos went on relentlessly, ignoring Duncan's cries, grabbing his hips cruelly. Duncan struggled but was held in an iron grip. "Methos, you're hurting me!" He could have ripped free but he wanted Methos to pull out voluntarily. No good, and finally he used his superior weight to push back, knocking Methos aside, his cock pulling free. Duncan whipped around to grab Methos by the shoulders – his lover's eyes were wide and staring, vacant. Duncan shook him. "Methos? Come back, please, come back." 

With a shudder, Methos blinked and looked at him. Looked at the blood on his own cock. "No...no...." He struggled against Duncan's grasp, but Duncan held him firm. "Duncan, let me go!" he yelled. 

"No. Methos, calm down." 

Methos began to tremble violently, his eyes blindly staring out of his agony. "Oh, God, oh, God," he kept saying over and over, tears dripping down his face. "Mac, please, let me go, let me go." 

"No, Methos, you'll only try to hurt yourself." 

"I raped you...." 

Duncan shook him. "You did _not_ rape me! For heaven's sake, Methos – look at me! I outweigh you by twenty pounds. Could you possibly make me do a damn thing I didn't agree to?" 

"The blood," Methos whispered. "So much blood...no...no." 

Duncan could only hold him close. He ignored the sharp discomfort in his rectum, knowing it would heal, and the rug would clean up eventually. He was a lot more worried about how much this would set back Methos, set back their relationship. "Come on, Methos, don't do this to yourself," he murmured. 

Suddenly, with a might heave, Methos threw him off and leaped to his feet, bolting, stark naked, for the door. Duncan made a grab for him, missed, and slipped, giving Methos a few crucial seconds to get ahead of him. "Son of a bitch," Duncan swore. Chasing after a manic Immortal in the nude in the middle of a cold, windy, wet night was not high on his list of things he wanted to do on Hogmanay. 

Methos had disappeared into the gloom frighteningly fast, and while Duncan could feel his Presence, he couldn't tell the direction. The wind made it impossible to find him by the noise of his running. Cursing again, he dashed back inside and pulled his clothes on. He needed a torch and a waterproof. He lost precious minutes as he searched for what he needed, but if he was going to find Methos in the pitch dark, he needed illumination and some protection from the elements. 

By the time he got out of the house, Methos' Presence was undetectable. Open fields on all sides surrounded the house. Which way would he have gone? Away from the village, Duncan guessed. Away from people. He struck out north, calling Methos' name, his voice torn from his lips by the howling wind. 

It was hopeless. He couldn't see more than a few feet ahead of him, and Methos could literally be anywhere. He stood in the middle of a dark field, despairing. Perhaps Methos would calm down and return. If not – he would suffer badly from the chilly weather, and if he was found by mortals in his condition.... 

Duncan realised he needed help, and soon. The only people he could call upon were Cassandra and Jane. He was very reluctant to drag their mortal friend out in this weather, but Cassandra at least might be able to help. He ran back to the house and dialled the cottage. It was many rings before Cassandra picked up. "Whoever this is, I hope you realise the time,'' she irritably. 

"Cassandra, it's me. Methos has run out, gone missing. I need your help to find him. I'll explain when I pick you up." 

"Yes, come," she said and hung up. 

She was waiting, dressed in warm waterproof clothes, with a backpack which she told him as they drove back to the croft had a blanket, two child's whistles and a powerful torch. "We can whistle if we find him – should carry over this wind. What happened?' 

"We were having sex – he got carried away, got rough. Then he freaked and ran out the door. It's my fault, I should have thought about this. 

"No, Duncan. He was in sound enough mind when we were there earlier. You couldn't have known this would happen. I know you would have acted from the best motives, because you always do." 

"I just had a feeling it was wrong...." 

"You won't help him blaming yourself. Or blaming him. Let's get him home and we can deal with it then." 

Duncan drove as far out into the fields as he could, then left the car with the parking lights on. They agreed to fan out, and to use the whistle if they found him. "If we don't find him in an hour, come back to the car," Duncan shouted over the wind. 

She nodded and took off. He had stuffed a blanket into a backpack as he'd left the house, just as she had – he realised he should have brought Methos' clothes but there wasn't time. 

The rain had eased, but as the cloud cover blew away, the temperature began to drop even more. Snow was predicted in the next day, and Duncan could smell it in the air. Apart from anything else, Methos was going to be badly chilled if they didn't find him soon. 

The hour was nearly up when he heard the whistle. There, from the left. He ran towards the sound, stumbling over rocks and gullies. Cassandra kept up the blasts in short bursts, and within ten minutes he had sensed her Presence. Two minutes later, he came across them among an outcrop of stones. Methos was flat out on the ground, covered in the blanket. Duncan could feel his Presence, but only faintly. "I think he smashed his skull," she shouted. "He's freezing cold." 

Duncan whipped out his own blanket, grateful that the rain had stopped at least, and wrapped Methos in it, over Cassandra's. He judged they were about two miles from the house. "Walk ahead with the torch," he said. "I'll carry him." 

He grunted as he got Methos into a fireman's carry onto his shoulder, wishing the old bugger hadn't made such good progress towards regaining the weight he had lost in captivity, and then staggered on, placing his feet carefully on the uneven ground. The wavering torchlight wasn't the best guide, and their progress was slow. Within twenty minutes, Methos began to stir, and then to struggle, crying out. Duncan was forced to stop and lay him on the ground. The older Immortal was shivering violently. "Methos, it's Duncan. Calm down." 

Cassandra knelt, and took Methos' face in her hands. "C'sandra?" Methos whispered. "Not...safe....go...." 

"No. Old man, you have to be quiet and let us get you home. You are endangering us. You must protect me. Remember? You promised. You have to be still and quiet to keep me safe." 

Duncan could hear Methos' teeth chattering but he also clearly heard the faint 'yes', and saw Cassandra nod. "Let's get you back," he said, hauling Methos to his feet. He could hardly walk, but it was still faster than carrying him, and thankfully, it was not long before he spotted the lights of the car. Within five minutes, they were there, and Methos was placed in the back seat, supported by Cassandra. 

Back at the house, Duncan half carried Methos into the living room, in front of the still burning fire. He ignored the bloodstain on the rug, instead laying Methos down on the sofa still wrapped in the blankets. "Towels and pyjamas," he said to Cassandra, who disappeared to find all that was needed. He spared a moment to poke the fire and get it roaring and then turned back to Methos. There was no sign of the injury Cassandra had suspected, but the rain would have washed away the blood. There was no doubt Methos was close to being hypothermic, shivering violently, his eyes tightly closed, holding the blankets tightly around himself. 

Duncan knelt beside the sofa and stroked back the wet hair. "Now why did you have to go and do that?" he murmured, bending to kiss the pale face. 

Methos tensed. "Mac... get her away." 

"Bullshit, Methos. Don't overdramatise things." 

Methos' eyes opened them. "I hurt you. I raped you. Made you bleed." 

"You made me bleed a little, yes, but you didn't rape me. I consented, very willingly. Do you remember what happened?" 

Methos nodded but didn't say any more, just closed his eyes. Cassandra came back in with the towels and a pair of Methos' pyjamas. "I've put the kettle on for tea." 

"Give us a minute or two, would you?" 

She nodded and retired to the kitchen. Duncan pulled away the damp blankets and began to rub Methos dry. His friend lay limp as a rag doll, not resisting any of Duncan's efforts or touches. When Duncan was satisfied he was dry and warmer, he put the pyjamas in Methos' hands. "Come on, get dressed. I won't look." 

"Who cares?" Methos said tiredly. He sat up and began to fumble with the clothes but made no headway until Duncan helped him. 

When Duncan finished, he looked up and saw Methos was weeping silently from closed eyes. He pulled him close. "Come on, love, you've had a little set back. There's no need to despair." 

"I became him again, Mac. A horseman. A rapist." 

"Rubbish." 

"You have no idea." 

"And you are talking out of your bum. Cassandra? Is the tea made?" 

"Coming," she called. 

"You shouldn't have called her out," Methos complained wearily. 

"Wouldn't have had to if you hadn't been doing a fair imitation of a lunatic. Besides, I didn't want to explain to Shona how her favourite uncle had turned himself into a New Year's popsicle." 

Methos made a sobbing noise at the sound of the child's name. "You mustn't let me near her." 

Cassandra had come into the room and had clearly heard this last exchange. She laid the tea tray down. "I'll be the judge of who's fit to be with my daughter, Methos. I've seen nothing to make me change my mind that you are." 

Methos raised his head and stared at her. "Cassandra," he said hoarsely. "I raped him. Lost it." 

"I keep telling him ...," Duncan started to say. 

She raised her hand to silence him. "Wait, no. What he says is important. So you became Death again, Methos? Another Kronos? You stuck your penis into another victim and took him against his will?" 

"No!" Duncan protested, but she turned to glare at him. 

"Tell me, Methos. Did you enjoy it? Did you feel good? Did you want it to hurt?" 

"No," Methos whispered. "I...I couldn't control myself...couldn't stop...." 

"Well, that's strange. Because the horseman who captured me was in control the whole time. He was an utter bastard. He _wanted_ it to hurt. He _loved_ raping me, raping others. Are you _sure_ you became him? Are you sure you're just the same?" 

Duncan held his breath. He could see what she was doing now. "I made him bleed," Methos said faintly. 

"Did it give you pleasure to see that?" 

"No! I felt...sick... so angry with myself...I hated it." 

He hung his head but she lifted it up. "Methos, hear me. You did not revert. Your mind was playing a trick on you, no more. Next time, you'll be more careful." 

"No next time," he said shaking his head violently. 

"Duncan, would you allow Methos to have sex with you again." 

"In a heartbeat," he said with feeling. "Any time, anywhere. I trust him." 

"But I hurt you!" Methos cried. 

"Yeah? So? I'm Immortal. So long as you don't cut my head off, I'll heal. And so will you, Methos." 

Methos shook his head again and closed his eyes in weariness. Cassandra looked at Duncan and shook her own head. "Enough," she whispered. 

Duncan fished out his keys. "Here, take the car, bring it back whenever. Thank you." 

"I'll come by tomorrow. Methos, I want your word. No more running away." 

He looked up. "I swear," he said faintly. 

"Good enough. Sleep well, both of you." 

Duncan thought there was little chance of that, but he repeated her words back to her and she left. 

He shook Methos a little. "I think," he said carefully, "this will all make a lot more sense in the morning. Let's go to bed." 

"I'll sleep down here," Methos said. 

"Okay. I'll sleep on the rug." 

"Mac...." 

"Methos," Duncan said in the same tone. "I'm sleeping with you, and that's final. Personally, I think the bed's more comfortable, but if you really insist, I'll sleep down here." 

Resignedly, Methos pushed himself up, swaying a little. "Have it your way," he said unenthusiastically. He walked unsteadily to the stairs and climbed them. 

Duncan made swift ablutions and climbed up to the bedroom. Methos was already huddled under the covers, completely hidden by them. It was a night to wear pyjamas again, Duncan thought, even though he'd abandoned them this last week. 

Methos was icy cold against him, and resisted being held. Duncan just bulldozed through the resistance and pulled him close. "Will you stop it?" he said impatiently. "You're punishing me for something that's neither of our faults. I'm not leaving, I'm not abandoning you and I want to hold you." 

"Mac, I...you don't know how it feels." 

"Yeah, right. Of course not. I mean you're talking to the guy who killed his student, _and_ Sean Burns, _and_ raped an innocent woman. Not to mention butchering a few hundred Englishmen for the crime of being English. What the hell do I know about guilt?" 

"It isn't the same." 

"No. It's not. It's worse for you. I know that. But don't treat me like a simpleton. I know it hurts. I know you don't trust yourself. But when the hell did you stop trusting me, for God's sake?" 

"I do trust you," Methos said in a faint voice. 

"Then act like you do. Let me make my own mind up with who and where I want to sleep, with whom I want to make love, and who I want in my life. Don't let _them_ make the decision." 

"I just got lost, Mac. It felt so good...then, I...forgot...I just lost it." 

"I know, I know. I could tell. It might happen again, but it probably won't. Not if you don't let it overcome you." He pulled and urged until Methos was lying on top of him. "I love you and I trust you. I know what happened tonight wasn't anything you wanted. I can deal with it. And so can you." 

He kissed Methos and raised a tiny smile. "When, pup, did you get to be so very old and wise?" 

"Must be hanging around you. Now promise me you'll sleep and not brood. Okay?" 

"I'll try." 

"Not good enough. Repeat after me. "I am good. I am not a Horseman. I am a sexy little bastard." 

Methos laughed. "Not even for you, MacLeod." He looked into Duncan's eyes. "I am?" 

"Yes, you are. Especially the bastard bit. Go to sleep." 

* * *

Duncan found the urge to shake Methos and tell him to snap out of it almost irresistible over the next couple of weeks or so, but he knew it would be both harmful and pointless, so he refrained. Still, he had to force himself to appear calm and cheerful in the face of Methos' shamefaced moping, his lack of enthusiasm for any thing remotely pleasurable, and his persistent attempts to get Duncan to go off on meaningless trips to Fort William or to Glasgow. Duncan had no desire to go to either city, nor to leave Methos to sulk on his own. Even Shona came close to losing her patience, chiding Methos for his lack of cheerfulness in the art lessons which had been resumed over Methos' objections, and at Cassandra's firm insistence. "You made a commitment to her, Methos. I won't permit you to mess her about for such a foolish reason," she said curtly, and Methos had meekly agreed. 

Duncan didn't dare risk being that blunt with Methos, but he snapped at him a few times, which Methos, uncharacteristically, took in silence and with no complaint. Duncan knew exactly what was going on in Methos' head – he'd felt the same more often than he cared to remember – and he also knew that Methos had to work it out for himself. He was intelligent and self-aware enough to do it. It would just take time. And patience from everyone else. 

He was feeling a little depressed about it all, despite his intellectual knowledge that a set back did not mean they had lost the war. He found himself fleeing to Cassandra, just to vent. She listened sympathetically, but had no better options than what he himself had come up with. "He's feeling ashamed, Duncan. And with some reason. He needs to get past it himself." 

"I liked it better when he claimed to have no conscience," he grumbled. 

"Ah, Duncan, something I've come to realise. That hasn't been true for a very long time. Why do you think he became a doctor?" 

"I just assumed it was because it was a nice middle-class profession." 

"Not when he was doing it," she said, but refused to elaborate. "Ask him," she said. "You know, maybe you _should_ go back to Paris for a few days." 

"I _can't_ leave him when he's like this," Duncan protested. "What if he tries to harm himself? Or...." His throat closed up at the idea of Methos managing to kill himself. He'd found the razor wire and thrown it into the loch, but still.... 

"I don't think he will." 

"'Don't think' isn't good enough!" Duncan yelled. 

She glared at him. "Duncan, he's an adult. You're an adult. Maybe if you stopped treating him like a retarded child, he'd stop behaving like one!" 

"I _don't_! I just...worry about him. I worry about all my friends. Even you." 

She snorted at that backhanded compliment. "We care about him too, Duncan. We will keep an eye on him." 

"Thanks but no thanks, Cassandra. He's my responsibility." 

"You don't trust me?" 

"I don't trust me even. Paris and Joe can wait." 

They parted on slightly cool terms, but Duncan was sure they'd smooth things over. But his irritated mood probably contributed to what he said when he got home and found Methos staring into space. His bored sounding welcome just made Duncan snap. "Cassandra thinks I should take off to Paris. Maybe I should, if you're so thrilled by me being here." 

_That_ got a reaction, even if only a slight one. Methos stiffened a little. "If you like," he said dully, not looking at Duncan. 

"No, Methos," he said through gritted teeth. "I do _not_ like. But I _don't_ like this self-indulgent moping, I'm sick of you trying to punish both of us for a momentary lapse, I'm sick of being treated like I've got the plague, I'm sick of not being able to touch you without you flinching, and I'm bloody sick of you covering up like a fucking Muslim bride!" 

Methos stood up, knocking the bench chair over, stared at him, and then pushed past him to go up the stairs. "Methos!" Duncan shouted. Fuck, he thought. _I shouldn't have said that._ He sat down and put his head in his hands. 

He looked about the kitchen, wondering if Methos had started supper. There was some pork defrosting, but nothing else done. Typical, Duncan thought with another flash of irritation. _Why is it suddenly getting to me?_ Maybe Methos was right to believe Duncan would despise him. _But I don't,_ he thought mournfully. 

He had to go to him. He climbed the stairs, and found Methos sitting on the bed, his head hanging down. Duncan sat down next to him. "I'm sorry," he said, stroking Methos' leg. 

"Why? You're just saying what you think. Cassandra's right. You've been living in a pressure cooker for months, and with damn little reward. I will be okay, if that's all that's worrying you." 

Duncan pulled him close, but although Methos didn't resist, there was no enthusiasm. "No, that's not the only thing. Methos, what happened? You were getting the joy back in life, you were starting to feel good about yourself, and about us, and you've lost it all because of one tiny lapse you had no control over? It's not healthy, and it's not you either." No response. "I just don't know what to do." 

At last, a great sigh. "Mac, I know the sex is important to you...." 

"The _intimacy_ is important. That why the...the clothing thing bothers me. I _like_ being skin on skin. I want to be close to you in every way." 

"You don't know who or what you're trying to get close _to_ , Duncan. You say it was a momentary lapse. You just don't seem to want to admit the possibility that I'm just like that in reality, and that it's my real nature coming through." 

"If that's what you think, then I can't see us ever having a future, because the man I love, the man I firmly believe in, is not like that, and I never will be convinced of anything else." 

"Then, as you say," Methos said quietly, moving away, "we don't have a future, because I can't be convinced any other way. Duncan, I think time has come for you to leave." 

"Methos, no...." 

Methos raised a hand to silence him. "I mean it. I really appreciate what you've done, how hard you've tried, but I think you can now retire without any stain onyour honour." 

"Damn you, Methos! You're not some fucking _task_ I've undertaken! You're the man I love!" 

"The man you're sick to death of, you mean," Methos said a little coldly. He stood up, but Duncan grabbed his hand. 

"I didn't say that. I'm just...tired of you being so sad." 

"Sad is me. Therefore you are tired of me. Please, Duncan, let's not have a scene. We always knew this was a temporary arrangement, and it has now outlived its usefulness. So, please, call Joe and I'd appreciate you leaving within the week, if that's convenient." 

"It's not convenient! Methos, you can't just throw us aside at the first hurdle." 

Methos pulled his hand away. "Please do not tell me what to do. I'm sick of being told what I should feel or think or how to react or what I should wear or who I should fuck." Duncan could see he was vibrating with anger. "In fact, I'm just sick of having no privacy and no freedom and no bloody peace and fucking _quiet_! I'm so _tired_ – so...." He clamped his lips tight and turned to go. Duncan leaped up and grabbed him. "Mac, manhandling me is _not_ going to help." 

"No, but I think talking might. I had no idea you were so frustrated." 

"Yeah, well, I had no idea how pissed off you were either." 

Duncan stepped back. "I'll leave if you really want, but I don't believe you do." 

"I don't care what you believe...." 

"And I don't care that you don't care, because I think you're just trying to avoid a fight and more pain. It won't work, Methos. If I leave, you're going to feel worse than you do now, I know that for certain. I won't feel terrific either." 

Methos went to the armchair and sat in it. He stared at his feet. "You're not exactly having a wonderful time now." 

Duncan came and knelt at his feet. He took Methos' hands. They were icy cold again, a sure sign that Methos wasn't as calm as he was pretending. "No, I'm not. But that's no reason to leave you. I don't expect it to be wonderful all the time. I don't expect us to never argue. But I do expect you to let me help and not muddle along to the point you just want to scream." 

"Why did Cassandra suggest you go away?" 

Now Duncan was cornered. "I was complaining," he admitted. Methos tried to tug his hands away. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to talk to someone about what was happening to you." 

"You should have talked to _me_ ," Methos said coldly. "Cassandra is not an expert on my psyche, no matter what she's done for me." 

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry. So I'm asking now. What are you feeling?" 

"Trapped. Angry. Wanting to get the hell out of here." 

"Well, we could do that," Duncan said reasonably. 

"You don't understand, MacLeod!" Methos shouted. "I wanted to get away from you, her, everyone. I'm sick of people looking at me, waiting for me to fail again, to fuck up. Sick of you watching me like a hawk – will he go nuts, can I fuck him yet? Oh, yes, I know what you're thinking. You're not getting any, and you hate me for it." 

Methos was shaking violently now, and the hands in Duncan's were fisting up. Duncan didn't know what to say. He _had_ been looking at Methos that way. He _had_ been wanting to fuck him. "I love you," was all he could say. 

"I know. Do you think that actually helps? Knowing you love me and you make me feel bad? Knowing how much I want you and knowing that if I do have sex with you, I could just go apeshit and rip you up? Knowing I could live a thousand years and what happened to me in that dungeon will plague me for all of it and more? You won't kill me, you won't let me kill myself, and you think you're being merciful," he spat. 

Duncan's heart froze. With every word, he lost confidence in what he'd been trying to do. Methos was right. He was just making it unbearably hard for him. He stood slowly. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realise. Didn't think...I'll go. Tonight, I can stay at the hotel. I'll...I'll let you know where to send my things." 

Methos nodded without looking at him. "Goodbye then," Duncan said quietly. 

"Yes. Thank you." 

_What the hell for_ , Duncan wondered. He scooped up a few necessary clothes, and packed a bag. Methos slipped out of the room while he was packing, and had gone out when he came downstairs. 

Duncan sat in the car for many minutes, hoping that by a miracle, Methos would change his mind, but his friend – ex-lover – never reappeared. 

He thought about going to the _Prince's House_ , but instead, he turned instinctively to where he knew – where he hoped, at least – he would be welcomed. 

* * *

Cassandra opened the door. "What's wrong?" she asked without preliminaries. 

"I'm leaving. I need somewhere to stay tonight – do you think I could sleep on the couch?" 

"Yes, I should think so. Come in." 

Jane and Shona were in the kitchen making supper. Shona greeted him politely. "Duncan would like to stay over tonight," Cassandra said to her friend. "Is that all right?" 

Jane raised an eyebrow but nodded. "You're welcome, of course. Have you eaten?" 

Duncan slung his bag down. "No." 

"Then you can share our meal. Why don't you and Cassandra go and talk? Shona and I can do this. Go on," she motioned with her hands. 

Cassandra led him up to her room. "Now, what's happened?" 

"I blew up at him. And it turns out that he's mad as hell too. I make it worse, he says. Too many expectations, watching him too closely." She nodded. "You agree with him?" 

"No, but I know why he thinks that way. So you're just leaving?" 

"What else can I do? I wanted to talk, but it's so obvious we're coming at it from totally different directions. He's in such pain, Cassandra. And part of that is me." 

"Yes. You're his Achilles heel. A source of strength and of weakness." 

"I don't know what to do. I need your help." 

She took his hands in hers. "Duncan. I want to help, I really do. But I don't know what to do here any more than you. Perhaps some time apart will be good for you. I know what helped me – my beliefs, my magic, my students. But he is not me, he is very different from me. And you are very different again. I trusted your heart would guide you. If it no longer can – then I'm out of answers." 

His heart sank. He had been hoping she would offer some clue, some plan, which would help. But effectively she was throwing her hands up in despair. "I'm going back to Paris. Will you keep an eye on him?" 

"You know I will. You could stay here a few days...." 

"And deny him access, prevent him seeing your daughter? It's about the only pleasure he has in life. I can't take that from him too." 

"No," she agreed unhappily. "I wish I could offer you some hope, but he is very damaged. And we're working blind." 

"I thought I was getting somewhere," he said bitterly. "But what happened at Hogmanay has knocked him too hard for him to recover from." 

"He's being foolish," she said severely. 

"No, he's not." Duncan felt compelled to defend Methos. "He's doing what you said he would – he's protecting me from what he might do. I just can't convince him that he doesn't need to." 

She shrugged and patted his hand. "Dinner will be ready. Perhaps things will seem clearer in the morning. I suggest you wait until then before deciding what to do. You can stay that long, at least." 

He supposed so. He followed her down to supper, but it was an uncomfortable meal. He responded automatically to Shona's usual happy chatter, but he found it hard to focus on the conversation, and even the child picked up on his distraction. "What's wrong, Duncan? And why isn't Adam with you?" 

"Hush, Shona. Duncan's got to go home for business," her mother said. 

"But this is his home, isn't it?" she asked, puzzled. "With Adam and all of us? You said he was going to stay." 

"Yes, but plans change. Finish your meal, please." 

Shona scowled and shot Duncan several dirty looks. He knew what she was thinking. _Quitter. Liar._ And he couldn't have disagreed with her. 

They watched a couple of nature programs on television, and then Shona was sent to bed. Cassandra went up to read to her, leaving Duncan with Jane. "Things not well between you and Adam, then," she said. 

"No. It's not his fault, you know." 

"I doubt it's either of your faults. Will you settle in Paris again?" 

"I...I just don't know. This morning I was going to stay here indefinitely. I haven't thought that far ahead." 

"You can stay here for a bit, you know that." 

Her expression was kind, and that only made it worse. "Thanks. But if I'm going, I should just go. Get on with my life." 

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." 

"You and me both," he said, his mouth twisting. 

The two women retired early, leaving him to the couch and his thoughts which chased each other crazily around and around. He considered calling Joe, but he shrank from giving his friend the depressing news about Methos. He tried to sleep, but sleep was elusive, so he watched television until his head hurt. He even broached some of Jane's Scotch, but it made no difference. At three am, he was still wide-awake, and still angry and hurt at the sudden turn of events. It went against all of his instincts to run away from a problem – but that didn't mean that this wasn't the right thing to do in this case. 

He turned over again, the hard sofa contributing to his distress by not being the bed he'd shared for months with his lover. 

Suddenly, Shona's words came back to him. This _was_ his home. Twice over, by birth and by attachment. The first time, he'd been driven out by something he had no control over. He would not be sent away again. 

He knew what he had to do. He dressed quickly and quietly and got his bag. He would call Cassandra in the morning and explain. But for now, he had someone he had to talk to and he couldn't wait even one more hour to do so. 

The croft was in total darkness when he arrived. The door wasn't locked, to his surprise. He slipped inside, and realised that Methos was still downstairs. He wasn't in the kitchen – that left the living room. 

"Methos?" he called softly. No response. He turned on the reading lamp. Methos was lying on the rug before the fire, curled up. Asleep. 

Duncan came and knelt beside him. He could see no booze, nothing to indicate why Methos was so deeply asleep. The room was cold, so he lit the fire which blazed up quickly. Then he lay down and pulled Methos into his arms. He would deal with the tantrums in the morning, but he wasn't going to let Methos drive him away this time. 

The fire was dead, and he was stiff and chilled when he woke. But that was less important than the fact he was being watched by a pair of hazel eyes. "Why?" Methos asked in a voice devoid of emotion. 

"Because this is my home and you are my home. Whatever hurts you, hurts me, and we face it together or not at all. And I'm not bloody arguing about that, whatever else we argue about. Is that clear?" 

Methos' eyes were cold, but his tone was colder. "Yes, perfectly." 

"Why are you sleeping on the floor?" 

"I don't know. Why are you?" 

"Because I was lonely without you, stupid. Do you still want me to go?" 

"I...no. No." 

"Good, because I'm not leaving." Duncan pushed himself upright, feeling every creak and cramp and then he dragged Methos up too. He checked his watch – it was only seven, and still dark. "I'm going up to _our_ bed, and you are coming with me." 

"Somebody died and made you the boss of me while I was asleep?" 

"Shut up, Methos. You said you were tired. Let me drive for a while. Unless you don't trust me?" 

Methos glared a little, but stood up and let Duncan take his hand and lead him upstairs. Duncan stripped down to his bare skin, and when Methos did the same, reaching for his pyjamas, Duncan stopped him. "No, no more, Methos. I've seen you naked, you've seen me. You have no need to hide from me." 

"MacLeod, I really hate being bullied," Methos said in a low, angry voice. 

"That's fucking tough. You've been sleep-walking and I've been letting you. That's how come we've got to this point. Now climb into bed and let me hold you. Or you can hold me. Just as long as I can touch you." When Methos didn't move, he added more gently, "Methos – you keep talking about the sex. I told you. I just need you close. You can give me that much, surely?" 

He didn't wait for Methos' reply but instead got into bed, before holding the blankets open for his lover. "Come, Methos. You're safe, it's cold, we're tired. Not everything has to be hard." 

"Are you sure about that?" Methos said sardonically, but he climbed under the covers. He didn't protest as Duncan held him. In fact, he actually snuggled close. "Do you always get your own way?" he asked softly. 

"Always. It's a law. Go to sleep. And stop thinking." 

* * *

It was time to start fighting dirty. He'd been overly influenced by Cassandra's insistence on not disturbing Methos' routine, and letting himself be guided by them. It had worked for a while, but now it was allowing Methos to stay in a comfortable, destructive rut, and it could take years – decades – before he shook himself awake. Duncan didn't want to wait that long, nor did he think it was good for Methos. So he fought back. 

Methos was cool with him, angry that Duncan had gone against his explicitly stated wishes. But he hadn't thrown him out again, so Duncan took that as permission to stay and make a damn pest of himself. The first thing he did was ban the pyjamas for good. "If we get a cold snap, we can bloody well sleep in the living room in front of the fire," he said. 

Methos had glared at him over that, but not argued. The second thing Duncan had done was drag him to Fort William to do some necessary shopping and to get the car maintained. That was harder – Methos had not left Glenfinnan in over a year, and Duncan moved carefully. Since the car maintenance would take a whole day, he booked them two nights in a good hotel. Methos, he assured him, was welcome to hide there if he liked. "But," he wheedled, " there's that new art shop opened up. And the book store." 

"Hah, some book store. You have to go to Edinburgh for decent books," Methos had grumbled. Duncan had just smiled to himself. 

Methos drove, but as they drew closer to Fort William, he grew visibly more tense. "Mac – I don't think I can do this." 

"Pull over, Methos," Duncan said. When he did, Duncan took his hand. "I can book a place outside the town, but you know I have to go in because of the car. Wouldn't you prefer to stay with me?" 

"Yes," Methos admitted. He straightened. "This is idiotic. Let's go." 

"That's my boy," Duncan said. Methos scowled at the patronising comment, but he drove on to the town without further problem. 

Duncan found a combination of judicious pushing, and Methos realising his limits were not immutable, worked well. The two nights in Fort William were surprisingly pleasant, and Methos ventured out to sample the art store, and despite his misgivings, spent a vast amount of money in it and the book store. He bought books on Scottish history, to Duncan's amusement. "Just want to see all the mistakes," he was assured. 

"Yeah, yeah," Duncan said, pleased as all get out. 

Sex wasn't raised as an issue again. It wasn't something Duncan could bully or plead with Methos over, and by unspoken, mutual consent, they left it until Methos could deal with it. But Duncan had no time for his other megrims now, because he was convinced the only way for Methos to overcome his fear of cities and strangers was just to confront it head on. Same as the nudity thing – even though Methos was not happy to lounge around naked, he had quickly got used to being in bed with Duncan in the nude, to Duncan's very great satisfaction. He had always firmly believed in the healing power of touch, and he was convinced that Methos derived as much pleasure from skin on skin as he did. 

That was not to say that Methos didn't baulk at many of the things Duncan suggested. Or that they didn't fight over them. But Duncan far and away preferred snappish, quarrelsome Methos to the passive ghost he'd lived with for so long. A Methos who argued back was a Methos who was taking an interest, and little by little, the man he'd known for so long was coming back to him. Changed, but recognisable. 

They even began to talk about possibly visiting Paris, but Methos was still finding reasons why he couldn't or shouldn't, and since Duncan couldn't wheedle him easily into it, that too was laid aside. One major step forward was Methos calling Joe. Duncan came home one Friday afternoon from dropping Cassandra and Shona off at Donan Woods to find Methos on the phone, clutching the receiver in white-knuckled hands, but doing a fair imitation of an amusing, calm and worldly wise man chatting to an old friend. Duncan went into the kitchen until he heard the call end, and then he came into the living room. Methos had a distracted vacant look on his face Duncan hadn't seen for weeks. 

"How is he?" 

Methos managed a smile. "I'm back on the Christmas card list, it appears." 

"He really missed you." 

"So he said." 

Duncan took Methos' hand, which had gone very cold. "He was hurt by not hearing from you." 

"So he also said." Methos turned to look at him. "You know, I didn't set out to cause him pain. I just couldn't face anyone, and especially not someone who knew what had happened to me." 

"I think he understands that." 

"Maybe." Methos got up and walked out. Duncan let him be. Rejoining the real world was going to be tough. 

As the winter ended, the days grew longer and the temperatures rose a little, they resumed the long walks they had enjoyed before the winter set in. It seemed to Duncan that Methos was more hard-edged, less diffident. Less susceptible to being caught unawares by conversations and events, and a lot more comfortable with him. Comfortable enough to argue with him, to push back, to refuse his ideas. All of which gave Duncan no end of satisfaction. 

It was as well he was more resilient. Duncan came back from the village with the papers one morning to find Methos looking at a letter, his face resting on his hand, clearly lost in thought. "Bad news?" 

"In a way. Anthony's getting married and has decided to move to America permanently. He wants to sell this place and buy an apartment in New York." 

Duncan sat down opposite him. "Maybe you should buy it. I gather he wants you out?" 

"In a couple of months. The thing is, Mac...." He looked up. "Maybe it's time to move on. You've put your life on hold for long enough, and I know you want to go back to Paris. If I stay here, you feel obliged to do so as well but there's nothing here for you." 

"It's my home, Methos." 

" _Was_ your home. _Was_. You're going to be a Highlander from Glenfinnan wherever you decide to live. You know perfectly well you would not have come here if it were not for me. So, I'm saying, I'll leave and that will set you free." 

Duncan felt cold inside. Methos seemed to have no real interest in what he himself did. He thought they had got past this. "Paris is just one of the places I'd like to go. I should really spend some time in Seacouver, decide what to do with the dojo. I'd always planned to 'leave' it to Richie." 

"It's a good business, with the right manager." 

"What about you? Would you consider running it for me? I could trust you. Not sure I could trust someone else." 

"Mac, that's kind but ...I'm really not ready to live in a city again. Not yet." 

"Then stay here." 

"But then you'll stay." 

Duncan was getting a little irritated by this line of argument. "Methos, you're my partner. I want to be with you. What's so wrong with that?" 

"What's _wrong_ is that I think I need to get away. I've spent long enough hiding and I've now got the taste to get out and see things again." 

Duncan asked his next question with apprehension, fearing the answer. "Will...will you come back? Will I see you again?" 

Methos' expression grew worried. "You want me to, don't you?" 

"Of course! But, if you think I'm suffocating you in some way, I understand." _It'll kill me, but I can bear it if it makes you happy._

Methos suddenly smiled. "Mac, I think we should start this conversation over. I am able to contemplate leaving only because of you, because your love and help. Do you think I would take that gift and hit you in the face with it? Of course I'll come back. I'm only talking about a couple of months. I need to set up a new identity, new career. Find a place to live." 

"Why can't we do that together?" 

"You want...to...Mac, you make it sound like we're married." 

"Yeah. I do. What's wrong with that?" he asked, slightly belligerently. 

Methos stared, opened his mouth. Closed it. Stood up and filled the kettle as if he was going to make tea, and then put the kettle on the sink. "MacLeod. Duncan. How long do you see us being together?" 

"I dunno. How long have you got?" 

"We're Immortals." 

"That hadn't escaped my attention, Methos." 

"Are you _serious_?" 

Duncan stood and walked over to him. "Completely. Marry me, live with me, have my adopted kids, with my body I thee worship, whatever you like. Or drop in every year for an anniversary screw, if that's all you can bear. But I _don't_ want you to disappear. I want you in my life however that happens. As for somewhere to live, I've got three places you can choose from, one on holy ground. They're yours. You want a career? I need a dojo manager, and I need someone to run an antique store I'm fixing to buy." 

He wrapped his arms around Methos and drew him close. "You want a lover?" he said huskily. "Whenever you can stand it again, please, consider me." He kissed him gently. "But don't just leave and never come back." 

Methos closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, his lashes sparkled with tears. "Jesus, Mac. You're too good to live, you know that?" 

"So you said." 

"I meant it. But what do you get?" 

"You." 

" _Besides_ me. Which is no bargain." 

"I get a housemate, a manager, a lover and a friend. I call that a real bargain. Methos, can I ask you to change your plans just a little?" 

Methos smiled. "After what you've just said, you can line your boots with my butt skin, if you want." 

"Ouch. Come back to Seacouver, come to the island. It's not as crowded as Paris, and it is holy ground. I could do with your advice about the dojo, and I'd like a chance to persuade you to take me up on this manager thing. If you can't stand it, then you can come and go as you want. I'd just like you to consider it as your base." 

Methos pantomimed thinking hard. "Hmmm. You're offering me sanctuary, a job and you. Gosh, that's a toughie. Okay, deal." 

Duncan grinned. "When do you want to leave?" 

"No hurry. But Shona's going to be cross with me." 

Duncan hadn't considered that. "Paris is closer." 

"But we can fly from the US to Britain with no great problem. She'll deal with it, she's a bright kid." 

Duncan pulled him close. "And the, uh, sex thing?" 

"I have a feeling that might be going to be resolved fairly soon, what do you think, Mr MacLeod?" 

"I think that it might be, with good will and intentions, Mr Pierson." He rubbed his cheek against Methos' face. "We just won't give up. However long it takes." 

"Your middle name is surely 'persistence', Duncan." 

"No, I'm fairly sure it's Iain." 

"Really?" 

"No," he said, grinning. "I don't have a middle name." He handed Methos the kettle. "Come on, let's have some tea. We've got some plans to make." 

"Aye, aye, boss." 

Duncan sat and smiled as Methos made the tea. "Duncan, if we get married, can I wear white?" 

"Only if you want to be struck dead by lightning." 

"Will you wear a kilt?" 

"You're not going to shut up about this, are you?" 

"Not soon, no." 

"Fine. I think I'll take a walk." 

Methos struck a dramatic pose. "Abandoned before the wedding, how shocking!" 

Duncan groaned. "I'm going to regret this." 

"Very likely. Tea?" Methos asked innocently. 

And as Duncan drank his tea, and was gently teased about the certainly non-existent wedding to be, he thought how his fortunes had waxed and waned over the past two years, how he would never have dreamed of being so happy just twelve months before. It was good to count his blessings. 


End file.
